All the worlds a stage and minded of my previous life I watched it pass by as Teenagers trundled down the Epar Road as I breakfasted on local fruit, yoghurt and honey. The procession of kids made their way to who knows where or why but some were in a hurry, some sauntered, some rode their bikes precariously weaving in and out as traffic past. The teachers seemingly trying to keep order by staying on the outside were well spaced out. A few kids hurried to catch up, running past the group as if they wouldn't be missed but had probably nipped behind the boat near the Hermes for a fag. The boys joshing and wacking each other as they bantered with each other. I honed in on the girls, the ones dressed in brighter colours than the rest, flicking their newly coifuured hair, the look at me girls, those that twiddle their earings to accentuate their femininity hoping to be noticed. Several slower boys wandered down apart from the others, maybe less fit, less popular, shy who knows?I nearly wished I was back teaching but thought better of it.I bet those Greek Boys and Girls weren't telling the teachers to Fuck Off.

I'm going to have to get fit myself as that hill up to Kefalos appears to be no obstacle and the highway to everywhere.

not long now

As the tourists are melting away the Island is returning to the locals more time for leisure is transparent. The Cycle club took off at speed along the Epar road not worried about mowing down tourists. Dressed in lycra with helmets it must be getting cooler. The English School group marched  down the hill all dressed in Red uniform and swinging their arms in time, thought they might have been a Scout or Cubs group, whilst some walked others rode their bikes.

The Sunday football fixture in Kos town saw small children in their football kit excited and ready to be picked up for 'The Game of the Season'. As I walked along the seafront Greek fishermen sit patiently waiting with their rods to catch dinner for the day. Rod in one hand fag in the other. Whilst others bashed the living daylights out of their Octopus.

As the restaurants empty out the space is taken up by Greek men chatting, socialising, drinking coffee. Siga siga. To watch is fascinating as much is said without words as with. Shrug of the shoulder, nod of the head up or down, sideways, tutt, eyebrows lifted, hands open , closed , up down, circled, so many movements conveying so much and the pitch of speech happy, sad, angry, punctuated with malaka........not swigging beer but eating slowly, slowly. Who needs words?

The chickens have taken back the road and as I passed Kritikos a big rooster and his groupies were trying to persuade a tourist that eating cake by the trolleys was a treat to be shared. As he strutted about and pumped himself up he made it quite clear who was boss and not to be messed with and was rewarded with swiss roll and other picnic items as the man swiftly departed. I guess there are fewer coaches now driving into the airport so safer to cross. 

As for the women I guess their time will come, but so far today those I've seen have been wearing rubber gloves, weeding, scrubbing floors and washing windows and busying themselves with chores and one elderly lady was swinging a mattock pick at the overgrown grass around her pathway. Not long now.

widows weeds

Lying on my bed after an evening out dining with friends, reflecting on my day, I am mindful that I now too am dinner for those bloody mosquitos seemingly immune to the aroma of Citronella. Not to be beaten I lay awake pretending to be reading until the blighters approached, tempted by the storyline on my Kindle and then mystified by the text I squashed them. Sorry Tablet but will clean you in the morning.

What I want to know is who buys the Clothes off the Yellow transit van. 'μπλούζες, παντελόνι

,παπούτσια,' He calls as he weaves his way in and out of the narrow back streets of Kefalos. And as if scurrying way to hide little old ladies disappear around the corner just as he turns the other. I'm sure it's the same woman, little, shapeless black shift dress, headscarf and flat shoes or short cut Bob so similar from behind you could turn them into lego characters.

So who buys these clothes? Surely not designer labels, how many sizes does he carry? What colour combination or is that a silly question, perhaps he specialises in the Widow's weeds. But no yesterday he followed me to Tingaki disporting glitzy, sparkly numbers must have known my widowhood hasn't followed traditional Black. I too scurried away, but fancy next time I will boldly go over and try a few outfits as I am curious to know what Blouse, Trousers or shoes I can Buy.

I can see you

At last a passenger enjoying the view I shouted 'Stop!' as we drove past the school at Antimachia. Once a teacher always teacher as my Radar honed in on three boys having a sneaky fag at the back of the bike sheds. Always on the alert for the naughties, years of working in a pupil referral unit had taken its toll and It turned out to be a day of now you see me now you don't

First stop, the Springs at Antimachia so near to the road yet hidden from view. As we descended down the rough hewn steps , dodging trailing stems of prickly plants the pervading smell of wild mint abounded and the roots entangled all the undergrowth about. The nearer to the source the soggier underfoot and even now wellies would have been better. This quiet watery glade looked like something from a film set long since abandoned yet ready to spring to life the moment out backs were turned. The sign long since covered by the plants taking back their space. As we returned to the car and looked back you couldn't help feel things were heaving a sigh of relief.

On to Antimachia Castle where the stage had been set centuries before and the end of the tourist season meant fewer and fewer people retraced the steps of the ancients. Another stage set background of silence yet heralding back to the sounds of Masons working on the stones, farmers tending their crops and rearing their animals. Knights Templars practicing their art of warfare, forever on the look out to defend their Island, just as the lizards today were forever hovering underfoot and darting away at the last moment. Abandoned stone buildings, crumbling rocks and dried , dying vegetation with hints of new growth peering through, nourished by the Autumn dew.

Lunch of course in Mastichari where the end of the season was evident as waiters vied for fewer and fewer tourists and the three of us dined alone before setting off for the Garden of Hippocrates.

The back route running parrallel with the sea, clear of cars all but the garbage truck soon had us bouncing along the dirt road flattened by tyres with deep tread and with teeth juddering we made it to the carpark. A remarkable place of silence, serene in its portrayal of days gone by and still the lizards watched and warmed themselves on rocks and stone steps before running ahead. The school room awaits the children after the tourists have gone. Time to learn about Hippoctratis, ancient medicines from herbs and flowers and chance to act and play on the stage and read poems and recite prose.