Flashback to a cooling summer drink and my interpretation of a Strawberry Slush: Strawberries, pineapple juice, lemon juice, crushed ice.
Tuesday 22 July 2014
Fruit &Veg
Take a look at Vicki Sawyer's wonderful website filled with animals. Portrayed with technical realism and with and with a personal sense of humour.
As a child, family members taught her the different species of plants and animals, which ultimately led to art college.
Work as a graphic artist has meant she has created hundreds of murals containing the beloved birds, insects, grasses, and wildflowers seen in her childhood.
Her animals with hats series popped up one day as a thought, when she was on a walk: "If birds could build nests, then they could make hats."
For more about Alison Day 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.
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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.
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