The best calamari by Alison
Day
© Alison Day
Showing posts with label greece. Show all posts
Showing posts with label greece. Show all posts
Tuesday 21 July 2015
Monday 20 July 2015
Tourist Wall
Tourist Wall by Alison
Day
The tourist wall—a place to walk along, sit, or ponder the seascape, pose, photograph or be photographed.
© Alison Day
Thursday 16 July 2015
Monday 6 July 2015
Cool Coffee
Already twenty-four hours on the sunny island of Crete in Greece. After a good sleep, it's time to sip cool frappés whilst guarding our cookies from the relentless attack of pigeons.
Yesterday was a very long day, a 3am start in Amsterdam followed by a 6.20 am, three-and-a-half hour flight from Schipol to Heraklion. Arriving at our hotel, a refreshing swim in the mosaic hotel pool and friendly greetings from the hotel staff rejuvenated our spirits.
Dinner by the sea of: tzatziki, saganaki, calamari and a Greek Salad with a finale of the local firewater - raki, accompanied by luscious watermelon.
© Alison Day
Monday 4 August 2014
Scuba Chicken
Scuba Chicken by Alison Day 2014
Scuba Diving on
Crete was a hit with my son both last year and this. Each time he had a great
time and impressed his instructors with his natural ability for the sport. Now,
he wants to train for his Padi. If he does, there is the option to do the final
qualifying tests abroad—so Greece could be on the cards next summer too!
We were picked up in
the cool early morning air from our hotel and driven down to Plakias on the
south coast of Crete. We were with six others in the minivan and were driven by
Costos—aquiline nose, curly haired Adonis, from Thessaloniki and one of the diving instructors. Along the
journey, we skirted round and through Tuscan red and peach coloured, rugged
hills, dotted with dark green vegetation. Through small villages with
flourishing pink bougainvillea and past Kafeneons filled with old Greek men,
staring and drinking coffee.
Our destination, the
Calypso Diving Centre was based in a cove next to a resort called Kalypso
Cretan Village. The diving instructors came from all over the globe and were
led by a very fit lady—Bear. Classes were
in languages of what the majority understood— in this case English and German.
The enthusiasm at the diving centre was infectious and the 'how to' was clearly
explained. Photos were shown of the kind of marine life we could expect to see,
as well as those to keep away from. For a fee, photos could be taken during
your dive and copied onto a CD for posterity.
Last year I was one
of the first time scuba divers too, thinking because I loved snorkelling I
would like this too—I didn’t. This year, I was contented to watch my son's
enjoyment and go for a swim in the amusingly—impossible to sink in—salt water
pool of the resort.
I had to laugh at
the wetsuit fittings of that day's scuba pupils, remembering my own—where the
suits are tried on for size—dry. A nigh on impossible nail breaker, where
everyone dances the fandango, as they wrestle into the suits. Later, you are
introduced to the far easier option of a huge, wooden slatted tub, filled with
water. Then the wetsuit slides on— in dance moves more akin to an expressive tango.
I can honestly say I
only enjoyed the scuba process up until we had to get into the sea. Although
the gear is lighter in water, I hated being trussed up and carrying the
equivalent of concrete shoes around my middle. From my sealed in state, I felt
as though I was viewing the world from inside my own private goldfish bowl.
Then there was walking backwards into the sea because of the flippers— an
awkward experience and why—ducks don't?
As I swam part way
along the cove, with my instructor towards the open sea, I tried to distract
myself from the inevitable open water dive by admiring pretty fish and avoiding
the stinging tentacles of translucent, shocking pink jellyfish. It was then I
decided that this experience wasn't for me. Fear and claustrophobia took over
and I flatly refused to continue. My instructor sympathetically tried to
appease my fears, but once my mind is made up . . .
Not to waste the
diving experience completely, I floundered around the cove in a half
dive-snorkel mode and followed shoals of fish.
Next year—in my wetsuit—I will be snorkelling!
©AlisonDay Designs
Sunday 20 July 2014
The Lost Tourist
Waking up to our last day, of a two week holiday on the sunny island of Crete and perturbingly the idea of going home actually appeals—shock horror!—never thought I'd hear myself say that.
I've eaten in every restaurant I wanted to re-visit and drunk every drink that appealed (with the odd early morning thick head afterwards. I've done the everything and the nothing I intended, as well as reached a total state of relaxation and calm, which is exactly what I was aiming for.
There are more signals that the time to go has arrived. Sitting by the pool has replaced any activity and conversation has become an effort... er... what was my name again? Also, I see worrying traits akin to the lost tourist beginning to emerge—god forbid and... the pigeons are closing in.
What on earth are you talking about!
Well... the lost tourist was first spotted in the old town, as he shot up a side street, alongside a souvlaki bar where my son and I were munching on gyros pita. He caught our attention because he didn't fit in with the usual relaxed flow, adopted by tourists in hot countries.
Before I could pop another chip into my mouth, he had reappeared from the side street looking shocked—wild white hair, protruding eyes—awash with the local firewater and long legs swinging forward in spasms. The increasing momentum propelling him off in an unstable manner in the opposite direction down the street.
The final time we saw him, it was cocktail time on the hotel terras. With the whole terras to choose from he plopped down in a cushioned, wicker arm chair right next to me.
Oh gawd—no!—but it's a free country—right? —So we ignored him.
Unfortunately, there are people you can ignore and those you won't let you... Gazing out to sea and in-between gulps from litre-sized, Mythos beers, he would laugh intermittently at nothing. Then, when the waiter shooed away the pigeons—advancing on the cheesy, starsign-shaped snacks accompanying our drinks—he positively roared with laughter. Why? Who knows—although it is said that laughter is good for the soul.
With no desire for contact, but feeling his eyes boring into my left shoulder—as I sketched—I decided on a furtive glance at our chuckling hyena. Through darkened sunglasses, I could see there was absolutely nothing to worry about. From his face, I could see that the lost tourist's flight to the planet, Zob had happily departed a long time ago.
[*Ooh, look a pigeon* . . . Ha ha ha!]
Saturday 19 July 2014
Cretan Magic
Sitting in a lovely little restaurant, in the old town of Rethymnon, under the hanging strands of flowering bougainvillea, its blooms in variegated and intense pinks.
Our waiter arrives. With our meal I order a glass of white wine—the local krasí—the waiter bobs a pony-tailed head and disappears into the restaurant. When the Cressi arrives, instead of a glass of white, it's an enormous glass of red.
'I didn't order red,' I say politely, 'I want white.'
From behind a bohemian moustache, he regards me with mild suspicion, as though I must be mistaken and then says bruesquely:
'I will change it.'
He returns a couple of minutes later with the desired glass of white Cressi - an equally enormous glass - generously filled. Depositing it demonstratively and without slowing his stride - to take the order from the next table—he places it on the table in front of me and says quite seriously:
'There—I painted it!'
Friday 18 July 2014
Stone Fortune
The wind set in around the island of Crete—whipping white foam edges on the crests of waves, pulling strands of hair from hairbands and blowing serviettes and paper notes into the air.
I spear olives from the Greek salad and I amuse myself with an old childhood rhyme—a seemingly female orientated superstition—to guess the status of a potential future marital partner:
Tinker — Taylor — Soldier — Sailor —
Rich Man — Poor Man — Beggar Man — Thief
Spoken with a lilt, as I count the olive stones neatly arranged in a row on the side of my plate—this time I have eaten five. Although not in need of a 'Rich man,' the outcome is desirable—I smile. A charming superstition, but of course not wanting to tempt fate, I generally do make sure that I eat more than one and if necessary, I will continue to eat more than six olives—silly eh? ... And luckily—I love olives.
Holidaying in Greece at the moment, I'm sure this ritual would be greeted by puzzled looks from the Greeks, who are more fatalistic by nature. Life is what it is and you take the rough with the smooth—no point complaining—get on with it, or turn it around so that it fits the way you want.
When it comes to being 'rich' there are so many other facets to it than monetary richness alone. I have only to look around me at the beautiful island on which I find myself—Crete—I feel rich and privileged to be able to be here.
Monday 14 July 2014
Beautiful
Early morning breakfast in the hotel. . .
'How are you today?' she asks.
'Ok—half asleep,' I answer, gulping down my tea in order to reply.
'You should say—I am beautiful—then you will feel good too.
'Ok,' I mumble. Then returning the sentiment, I ask: 'So . . . how are you?'
'Beautiful!' she says, with a sly smile over her shoulder—as she goes to relieve a table of its dirty crockery—from the other side of the marble-floored, dining room.
Join me:
Alison Day Designs
Facebook and FB Page
Etsy
Subscribe for updates: Alison Day Designs
Sunday 13 July 2014
Rusty Inside
Today, a light lunch at the restaurant across the road from the hotel of Mezzes: calamari, Greek salad and taramasalata accompanied by crusty bread in a wicker basket. Fanta, a glass of the local Cressi and ice cold bottled water.
Our waiter—dark haired with silvered edges, deposits the bottled water with a glass on the table and says:
'Nero' (water), then he adds with a warning tone, 'but not too much, otherwise you will become rusty inside.'
Amused, I laugh and reply:
'Yes, too much and I will need some olive oil to move again.'
He pauses to take in what I said. Then comprehension slowly crosses his darkly tanned face. With a broad grin—revealing an assortment of teeth and a twinkle in his eye, he wanders off to serve another table tray on hand.
Posted with Blogsy
Thursday 10 July 2014
Airborne Folly
Have you noticed the increasingly peculiar baggage policies of airlines?
It first really came to my attention last Summer, when my brother and his family flew over for a visit from England to the Netherlands. On the flight out, at the airport, they were annoyingly told they had to pay for their baggage to accompany them.
'I thought an airfare included your baggage,' my brother said, as he walked through my front door. 'What a rip off!'
These days, unless you are signed up as a 'member' of some airline's club, any bags for the hold are not included in the airfare. Pretty stupid really, but ok, for a quiet life I signed up. But wait . . . after luring me in, recently I received an email and they had moved the goal posts again. Now my Ivory membership didn't include baggage. I had to have a gold encrusted bejewelled one with bells and whistles - plus have taken 15 flights with them to regain the privilege.
Why?
Logically, most people travel with a change of clothes and personal effects. Agreed? It goes without saying that some sort of bag, filled with a change of clothes and personal effects generally accompanies you on a trip and is included in the ticket price.
Obviously, the rules are changing and being replaced by quick money makers to cover the rising costs of fuel. Or is there really a weight issue in the aeroplane's hold? Or could we be, as I suspect being right and royally ripped off? I'm not going to blame this one on the aftermath of the economic downturn because let's face it that excuse has been worn ragged.
As far as flights to sunny destinations are concerned, this scenario is not entirely new. For the last couple of years, when flying to places like Crete, Greece. I have been paying for my baggage and did assume it was a weight issue. When you look at what other people at check-in are taking with them for two weeks in the sun, it's mind boggling and payment by weight then seems a fair solution. They're the ones who have arrived at the airport at six in the morning in 16 degrees celsius, already dressed for the beach. In flip-flops and beach attire they buzz around their candy coloured hard-shell cases; enjoyment is a prerequisite of the trip. Forgive my cynicism, but do you really need that many cases - it's only two weeks!
Charges are per kilo weight and you can choose your package! I'm not complaining (*sigh*) but the extras do mount up. This Summer, for our trip to Greece, I have chosen 20 kg per person, per bag. at a cost of 20,00 euros per person. Ok, that's an extra 40,00 euros and in the scheme of things doesn't break the bank. But wait . . . did I mention it's each way? That's a total of 80,00 euros!
When it comes to the validity of this baggage charge, on the outward journey they certainly take notice of the kilo allowances at check-in. On the way back, however, no one cares - it's far too hot and the Greeks don't seem to be bothered by the absurdities of kilo allowances, as they shovel tourists on and off planes. They probably wouldn't bat an eyelid, if along with the raki, honey, herbs, shot glasses, Metaxa, shells and jewellery . . . I had a donkey in my luggage!
And there's more . . .
Another newly implemented delight is that the pre flight seat reservation is also no longer free, unless it is 24 hours before the flight. To reserve an ordinary seat it will cost 7,50 euros per person, each way, unless of course you want to stretch your legs - in the special seats - over the plane's wing by the emergency exits. That will cost you 15.00 euros per person each way. Although I did buy into this option - because I want to travel with my son and not have to wave at him from the other end of the plane - I'm not keen on it because it as a potential to encourage the mob mentality of bagging seats.
At times like this, I wish I could sprout wings and avoid all this nonsense, or that teleportation had been perfected as the way to travel - as in Star Trek - but until then . . .
I expect in the not too distant future, fuel and tickets prices will rise again and then they will have to dream up some other scheme - a charge for oxygen on the flight maybe:
'Do you want to breathe for the whole flight, madam. Or will a couple of hours be sufficient?'
'You're a blond? Oh dear, it's Thursday - I'm afraid only brunettes travel for free today.'
'If your child fits into this baggage frame, you'll be exempt from the new 'travelling children tax'.
As I post this, it's probably pouring with rain, in Holland. I've made it to the sun and I am lounging by the pool - in 32 degrees - sipping a cocktail. The pernickety baggage and seat issues are but a hazy memory . . .
Monday 7 July 2014
Morning Coffee
Early morning coffee on the terrace and it's already 26 degrees on Crete in Greece—Happy days!
Sunday 16 December 2012
Breadtopia
“Blues is to jazz what yeast is to bread. Without it, it’s flat.” - Carmen McRae
There's nothing more disappointing, whilst on the run, than grabbing 'a-sandwich-to-go' only to find that the bread is less than acceptable.
The momentary illusion of a tasty sandwich, created by the attractive packaging, its filling promising satiation, is immediately dashed by the first bite; the filling runs off in terror, the bread shrinks into a glutinous lump and then proceeds to stick to the roof of one's mouth. Swallow, and it dawns on me that this 'bread' has only just started its journey, and has a long way to go... Ugh!
It is with this in mind that I rejoice at the movement of the real bread movement, where the baking of bread is artful - the use of the best organic ingredients, perfect preparation, and the pimping of the worn out old homely-style bakery establishment to one befitting the sale of real bread.
Photos of Blé Bakery on Agias Sofias in Thessaloniki, Greece
Via: The Cool Hunter
Blurb: © Alison Day Designs
Wednesday 28 April 2010
Crete the Final Frontier
I
had absolutely no qualms about leaving behind what must have been one of the
wettest Augusts on record for a two-week holiday on the island of Crete in
Greece.
My
friends Kate and Luc, who emigrated there a couple of years ago, picked me up
at the hot and chaotic airport of Heraklion and we sped off in their jeep in a
westerly direction to Rethymnon, situated on the northern coast of the
island—cans of ice-cold beer in hand.
It’s
fifteen years since my last visit to Crete , and
of course during this time there has been a lot of change and restoration. As a
tourist attraction Rethymnon manages to cater for the wishes of its
visitors without compromising its customs and traditions. The old town of
Rethymnon for example, has still retained its charm, with the local butchers,
bakers, and corner shop all still in existence. This is no mean feat in a day
and age of the larger supermarket and mass production breathing down their
necks.
Historically, Crete and
particularly Rethymnon has a broad history dating back as far as the Neolithic
period. Modern day Crete only became part of Greece
The south coast of the island is
easily accessed by moped, motorbike or car. Driving through the mountainous
regions on the way is more than impressive. The roads twist over and around
dry, orangey coloured rocky hills, daubed with green vegetation, which has
managed to escape the heat so far; through gorges with sheer rock faces on
either side. Village signs are shot full of holes in celebration of the birth
of a child or just for sport. Locals sit in the shade on wooden chairs
discussing life and the universe; the men often stripped down to their vests in
an attempt to keep cool. Every bend in the road with an alarming drop
seems to have a shrine in memory of someone who managed to misjudge it.
As with most places in the world there
is also an expatriate presence on Crete ,
who meets regularly for coffee mornings and lunches in small tavernas by the
sea. There is the CIC (Cretan International Community of Chania) in Chania and
the Rethymnon group, whose members I found to be very open and friendly.
© Alison Day
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)