In an aeroplane, even the slow descent to Corfu airport from our village
to the runway at Kapodistria, 18k further south, I travel further with one bite of a sandwich sat in my belted seat,
than I travel on a morning’s cycle ride. Our residency papers were
ready at the police station in Paleokastritsa.
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It took me an hour to get there from Ano Korakia via Skripero – 8 kilometres crow-flight, perhaps 10k on country roads. Vasili, a polite young policeman in the office, had our certificates ready – 23 cents each with a stamp, a photo, signatures – official. We can stay here more than the previously legal 183 days. I was delighted to cycle, without a break, past many tavernas and hotels. up the long hill out of Paleo to where my road headed below Doukades to a T-junction along along a rutted road through wood and meadow to Skripero and home.
It took me an hour to get there from Ano Korakia via Skripero – 8 kilometres crow-flight, perhaps 10k on country roads. Vasili, a polite young policeman in the office, had our certificates ready – 23 cents each with a stamp, a photo, signatures – official. We can stay here more than the previously legal 183 days. I was delighted to cycle, without a break, past many tavernas and hotels. up the long hill out of Paleo to where my road headed below Doukades to a T-junction along along a rutted road through wood and meadow to Skripero and home.
Another day, my road south is another country road, gnarled by irregular repairs, with cracks from roasting that run in the direction of travel and a winding four inch scar after the laying of wifi cable. Lined with hollyoak, cypress, olive, oak, fig, and eucalyptus trees, some wrapped in ivy, its verges brim with wild flowers, hiding occasional plastic bottles, cigarette cartons, soft drink cans. This land was once part of great estates, but it wasn’t subject to enclosure, where, in England, swathes of land were hedged from the commons by landowners. It’s piecemeal – the vanishing remains of a busy pastoral economy in which all but a few were country people. No hedges. Those are reserved for private gardens; rather a shifting mix of makeshift separations – chicken wire, chain link and barbed wire held by metal posts, upright palettes, a bedstead, wood nailed to posts – made discreet by burgeoning greenery. Gulleys, leading to culverts and dry winterbournes in the dips, make edges beside the road. At times there are just clumps of unmown verge, bamboo, brambles, long grass sprinkled with corncockle, vetch, white and yellow daisy, nettles, and, now and then, fugitive garden flowers turning wild - clambering rose and tall hollyhock.
Lin had made a shopping list - a box of wine, 6 eggs, 2 packs of butter, 1/2 kilo of mince, 6 village sausages, 1/2 kilo of mushrooms, 6 large potatoes, i kilo of onions, I kilo of carrots, crab sticks, margarine, sweet corn.
I walk my bicycle down the stony path from our house to National Opposition Street. By the bus stop I turn the bike upside down and examine the tyres for embedded thorns from the plants on the path that produce seeds like caltrops - tribulus terrestris. We call them ‘yellow perils’. I use a hard brush on the turning wheels, and the tip of my penknife to ease out suspects.
I ride eastwards to the hairpin bend on the edge of the village, that leads south from the road to Ag Markos, freewheeling swiftly to Athanassios Street, taking the short cut that passes the olive oil works to 'barking dog corner' and the old main road from the village to town. This road has no steep slopes until Ag Vassilis. Then it descends more steeply to the main road between Corfu Town and Paleokastritsa. I’m heading for Kaizanis, the supermarket at Tzavros.
I walk my bicycle down the stony path from our house to National Opposition Street. By the bus stop I turn the bike upside down and examine the tyres for embedded thorns from the plants on the path that produce seeds like caltrops - tribulus terrestris. We call them ‘yellow perils’. I use a hard brush on the turning wheels, and the tip of my penknife to ease out suspects.
I ride eastwards to the hairpin bend on the edge of the village, that leads south from the road to Ag Markos, freewheeling swiftly to Athanassios Street, taking the short cut that passes the olive oil works to 'barking dog corner' and the old main road from the village to town. This road has no steep slopes until Ag Vassilis. Then it descends more steeply to the main road between Corfu Town and Paleokastritsa. I’m heading for Kaizanis, the supermarket at Tzavros.
I pedal by Luna D’Argento, night club converted to apartments, and the gate to Sally’s stables where I took our grandchildren riding, on past Stamati’s joinery and up a slight hill before passing the T-junction that leads down to Kato Korakiana and the shore. I continue through the hamlet of Ag Vassilis. The clouds are starting to drop rain. At the hamlet of Gazatika the rain increases. I find an open garage and shelter opposite an empty house. A few cars drive by, swishing on the wet road. Swallows settle on an electric cable over the way, preening fussily under the rain. I see no-one. The rain rattles louder on the corrugated roof of the garage, lessens and pauses.
I’m working through the recovered
footage of my stepfather's old Out of Town location film – 16mm reverse negative colour film
40 years old and more, synchronised with 1/4" reel-to-reel sound tape of
Jack's commentaries, digitised, colour restored - brought here on a
solid state hard drive. Where we have only Jack’s recorded voice, because the
old studio image recording tapes cost so much, they got reused. I am filling in these. I'll be filmed in July by Paul Vanezis to make the next Out of Town DVD
box set.
 |
| Draft selection of recovered Out of Town episodes |
I must digest the spirit of my stepfather’s words before the start of
the location films. It scares me. I observe a process of rumination and procrastination.
The unusual grey weather that
lingers across the southern Mediterranean is, here, the village’s pall. The
worst thing that can happen is to lose a child. The grass on
the paths to her grave is flattened by daily visits – toys, a hundred fresh
flowers, a kite, a portrait, small heaps of lovingly arranged pebbles. Beside that a couple of instances of cancer in treatment, a pair of unexpected and irreparable separations from marriages entered only recently with celebration and ceremony, pass almost unheeded. It makes this grey weather dispiriting, reflecting harm in the affairs of a community.
We had
elections, local and European in Ano Korakiana, but where before the village website would swiftly list the results of the polls, they remain unentered but for an
epitaph to the daughter of the village diarist. How could TS, so cruelly
bereaved, muster the spirit to continue recounting the village story?
I walked by the village mayor on Democracy Street, working on repairs and alterations to the home occupied by our
new papas. FM has striven hard for the village, sorting out street lighting,
leading neighbours in keeping village waste sorted and removed without
mess, arranging for its collection from homes without cars, pushing for a recycling area near the football pitch now being laid out in full
working order below the village. He told me he would be Mayor for just 3 more
months. The vote last Sunday had been 430 for him to stay and 435 for a new Mayor.
“Five
votes” he said holding up his hand “Just five”
Papa
Evthokimos’ house in the village is just opposite what was Stamatis’ Piatsa bar.
That’s closed. Our Papas is parking his car where we and others sat to
drink and chat. Mark says our new Mayor will be Dr Stavros Savanni, a good man we've met many times, elder of Ano Korakiana, but we shall miss Fokion in that post.
I peeked out from my shelter in Gazatika. The rain began again, sheeting down – then as abruptly
stopped. My road continued past Angeliki’s the physiotherapist, opposite the island’s
electrical sub-station. I cycled across the river, waterless despite the rain, to the
main road and another kilometre to Kaizani. I work through Lin’s list, ticking
off items. Outside I calculate I have about 13 kilos in my basket. On my way gently
uphill the 10 kilometres back to Ano Korakiana. Shopping becomes a
small adventure on a bicycle.