Nobal Glomad

Childhood memories

A recent travel colleague of mine was beach reading 7 years in Tibet. I remember her grumbling “I wish they’d just get to the Tibet part”.  So, after arriving in Kythira today (penthouse suite pictured above) I decided as homage to her impatience, to draw inspiration from the book’s title for this series of articles, ruthlessly time culling it for the Gen-Y readership. I will be posting just seven to-the-point (ish) stories for seven days, starting right on location, no how to get there’s, what to wears or that blah blah, just getting my teeth into the meat… welcome to day 1.

Peering over the edge of Kapsali jetty, the hypnotic blue of the water below glistening with my Picasso’d reflection, I remember my first visit here aged five, standing attentively in the morning light with my brothers, all of us in thongs and speedos as dad taught us the art of line fishing. Close-by a leather skinned local fisherman with half a cigarette hanging carelessly from his mouth… showing more gum than tooth, his ragged clothes smelling of last weeks catch, is beating a sucker-laden octopus against the concrete to tenderise it for lunch. We squealed, half with fear, half with delight before jumping in to see who could reach the bottom first.

We all have precious family holiday memories stored away from our childhood and it takes a trip like this to recall the forgotten details. For me these are of Greece, with the sticky sweet nectar’d perfume of abundant fig trees, foil-lined boxes of ‘feed an army’ spanakopita triangles and icing sugar dusted koulourakia biscuits delivered by 3rd and 4th cousins, the familiar song of cicadas rehearsing their orchestral swell as the heat of the day intensifies, glimmering pebbles covered by the wash of small waves on crescent contoured stone beaches, and standing behind our family villa/concrete box naked with my brothers showering under the cold garden hose before dinner.

Strolling through my great aunties’ olive grove near Mylopotamos, with her dressed in dowdy traditional widowing black chatting away cheerfully in Greek like it’s my first language, sporting a serious face grating moustache and her ‘happy to have family here’ tearful smile. It is only now I realise how important these memories are, how close they are to my life.

Only now do I have the time to try and connect with this existence being my grandmother’s youth… milking herds of goats, picking and pressing the olives, fermenting the cheese, baking bread, cleaning up after toilet-anywhere donkeys and a strict Orthodox upbringing. Had it not been for her being shipped away to Australia for an arranged marriage at the tender age of 17 to my grandfather 14 years her senior, not speaking a word of english, probably only a suitcase of simple possessions with her and scared shitless… I would not be here today.

It is moments like this that make us realise our life is a series of chapters. Since the time I returned again with my mother, some fifteen years ago little has changed. There’s no huge high-rise, no MacDonalds, no cruise liners calling for lunch and cute back-street snapshots. It still has the charm of being local, real and connected.

Tonight I wandered the Hora streets to discover a small dimly lit bakery, an old Yai Ya chatting away to me in Greek, again like it were my mother tongue. There on a lace covered glass platter sat perfection… fresh baked Diples. I was officially in memory heaven. The light flaky pastry, sticky infused honey, toasted sesame seeds all generously sprinkled in cinnamon. It all came rushing back and I smiled from ear to ear. Sigh. Here’s to the recollection of beautiful innocence and the joys of childhood memories.