Greek Ferries

The theme of The Gallery this week was Means of Transport.  Follow the link on this page to see what others came up with!

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In the summer of 2008 I took my children to Greece.  We left Limassol harbour for Rhodos, then worked our way up through the Dodecanese and the Northern Aegean to Thessaloniki over a period of six weeks using a variety of craft from cruise ship to caique.

Leaving Limassol

Leaving Rhodos

Bound for Telendos

Bound for Telendos

Bound for Telendos

Leaving Kalymnos

Somewhere in the Dodecanesos

Patmos Harbour, waiting for Best Beloved

In the summer of 2008 I took my children to Greece.  We left Limassol harbour for Rhodos, then worked our way up through the Dodecanese and the Aegean to Thessaloniki over a period of six weeks using a variety of craft from cruise ship to caique.

Crete Documentary Workshop

At the end of last month, I went -- as I have gone for the last three years -- to Chania in western Crete for Stella Johnson's Documentary Photography class through Maine Media Workshops.  This time, instead of having to drive to Larnaca, fly to Heraklion, and ride the bus for three hours, I flew RyanAir -- a door to door journey of about three hours as opposed to one of nine and less than 100 Euros rather than more than 200.

I joined three other students, Stella, and four Greek teaching assistants, and spent 6 blissful days making pictures in and around Chania -- a town that I'm beginning to know.

As usual, Stella was a wonderful teacher, offering ideas and criticism as well as technical help.  Seeing other students work and discussing the stronger or weaker points of images made for stimulating afternoons, and spending time with the TAs -- who provided a cheerful transport and translation service -- provided an interesting glimpse into Greek life at these troubled times.

Chania, a popular tourist town, has been spared many of the difficulties of the mainland.  Like Cyprus, its population is still tied closely to the land, and even city dwellers have relatives still living in the villages, keeping chickens or livestock, raising olives, vines, or other fruits and vegetables.  Empty shop fronts, 'For Sale', and 'For Rent' signs proliferate in the city's streets, and the tension of financial strain spills over in the form of fights in the market and more beggars on the streets than before, but people linked closely to the land remain versatile and despite sometimes drastic wage cuts, a sense of optimism remains.

I had wanted to photograph at an animal shelter, so Maria, one of the TA's contacted Silke Wroble who has been the advocate of Crete's sick and abandoned animals for twenty-five years.  Working on a shoestring budget she takes in dogs, cats, birds, and any other animal that needs her care -- providing food, shelter, health-care, and, for a lucky few, the chance of a new 'forever' home, either in Greece or abroad.

As well as my usual hang-outs, the bus station and the cemetery,

I photographed 'behind the scenes' at Faka, one of my favourite restaurants.

Best Beloved joined me for the weekend, and as usual the Porto del Colombo Hotel was a great place to stay.

The Gallery -- Morning

The prompt from The Gallery this week was 'Morning', so I looked back through my files and chose these.

Kato Paphos is a tourist spot, usually heavy with the smell of suncream and souvlaki, loud with the ubiquitous Mediterranean whine of scooters and the tooting of horns, full of children and life and ice-cream.  But on the Sunday mornings of mid-summer, when the air is pre-humid clear and the water as yet unstirred by the feet of bathers, it can be a paradise.

I was experimenting with shadows and wet footprints that morning.

Please follow the Gallery link and see how others approached the Morning prompt.

A Ride in Aphrodite's Hills

When Leo had his ninth birthday last November, I decided that I had hosted my last kids' party. Eighteen years of cakes, jelly, party games and piles of washing up came to a gentle but definite halt: there was no point in putting in my twenty. “Tell that to Zenon,” Sophia had said when I announced my early retirement to my older children. But “I'll think of something,” I had replied. 

I broached the subject to Zenon at the end of March, and after disappointment flashed across his face, hope flared. “Can I go with some friends to paintball, then?” he asked. My heart fell. I hate paintball for the same reason that I hate computer war games and anything that encourages little boys in the phoney heroism of sanitised combat. So I temporised with “Maybe we can think of something else – would you like to take two friends and try riding?”

Riding was part of my childhood. Never as accomplished an equestrienne as my sisters, I was, nonetheless, pony-mad, and began riding at four. Except for a time in Hawaii where there were no nearby stables, I rode until I left Ireland in my mid-twenties.

Cyprus is not a horse place. Donkeys have always been a part of the furniture, draught animals since time immemorial, but the few horses on the island are either on the race-track or the preserve of a (mostly English) horsey set in a few scattered saddle clubs. The climate and environment are harsh and feed is expensive, so horses have not been a part of my children's lives as they were a part of mine.

His eyes lit up immediately, so I called Anarita Equestrian Centre, open for a year or more in a village about thrity minutes drive away, where we went for pony rides after Leo's party. But Marlene said that they did not have enough suitable ponies for five of us (Zenon and two friends, Leo, and me) to go for a quiet hack in the countryside. She suggested that I call Pat at Aphrodite Hills – the saddle club attatched to the nearby InterContinental Hotel.

Pat had enough quiet horses for us all, and enough helpers to lead the boys. We settled on a date three weeks hence (Zenon's birthday falling, this year, on Orthodox Easter Sunday); a time that would allow us an hour on horseback, cake back at the stables, and a reasonable hour to hit Gino's La Sardegna Pizzeria in town for a celebration meal; and a price (discounts for being local and a group of five).

Zenon chose two friends, Loucas and Marcos, to come with us, and we showed up in plenty of time. Pat and several young ladies fitted us with hard hats, and introduced us to our steeds. Leo had a smart-looking little grey Welsh pony called Mr Bojangles, and I had a rather classy looking dark brown mare called Twizzle. The others had solid looking bays and a chestnut of around 14 h.h., which looked quiet but a long way from bored riding-school gee-gees.

We spent a peaceful hour riding along a track through olive and carob groves to a look-out from where, on a clear day, the view stretches from Troodos to Akrotiri. Each of the boys chatted with the girl who was leading him, and I – when I wasn't out in front because of Twizzle's longer stride – chatted with Pat, discovering that her son had been in Sophia's class and was also at drama with Zenon. There is no escape in our small community! Everyone is linked somehow, either through relatives or school or neighbourhood or afternoon classes.

Arriving back we did some exercises in the arena, then enjoyed Zenon's choice of cake – New York Sweets profiteroles – which we shared with our patient 'leading ladies'. While we were eating, one of the girls resaddled Twizzle and rode her around the arena, practising for an upcoming dressage test. From quiet trail horse, Twizzle metamorphosised into a nicely balanced show horse, and watching her revived dormant memories that I patiently shoved aside.

Collecting Best Beloved and Alex – Sophia was at work – we rounded off the day with an array of Gino's pizzas and I dropped Marcos and Loucas off at their respective houses just before nine in the evening.

I was a little unsure of how the boys had enjoyed the unorthodox celebration, but both of mine were enthusiastic and, according to their parents, Loucas and Marcos 'haven't stopped talking about horses since'.

So glad we passed on paintball...

Still Life

Last Monday, Orthodox Easter Monday, was D-Day for Distilling. The (rather pong-y) mandora juice was wheeled to the still, pumped into it, and boiled. To the mix was added the failed wine from last year's raisinated grapes, and some other less-successful bottles. Three and a half to four hours later, the first distillate dripped out of the tube at the bottom of the plastic cooling barrel. It measured 70% alcohol at first, but quickly dropped to 60% then 55%, then stabilised at 40%, and Best Beloved distilled in total 15 litres – 5 litres at 50% alcohol, 5 at 40%, and 5 which are a mix of the inital and final distillate and will be added to the next batch.

Easter Monday being a red-letter day for feasting and games in the Cypriot calendar, a goodly collection of male family members and friends were gathered at our house and Bill's, and our garage quickly became a focal point. Small glasses were passed around, sniffed at appreciatively, and sipped. It was rough, but not as rough as some of the zivania that does the rounds, and it had a definite undertone of citrus – fruity but with a bitter tang from the pith and peel.

"Wow!!"