Anastasia

   My grandmother Anastasia loved peony roses and beetroot. I don’t mean in a sandwich for lunch but because she adored the colours -- pinks, purples and almost red. Each spring I looked forward to seeing these roses which grandfather planted amongst the cabbages. The various shades of pink and pale red looked wonderful. I loved the deep purple beetroot too and when granny peeled these vegetables I’d dip my fingers into the bright water and expect my mother to admire eight indelible purple digits.

   My niece held a bouquet of peony roses on her wedding day not knowing that these were her great grandmother’s favourite flower. Such a revelation made her extremely happy although she had not picked her special roses from amongst the cabbages! I don’t recall having beetroot with the wedding banquet either -- but my finger nails were purple!

I wrote a poem once about my granny:

                                        Child Walks with Grandmother

                                Early Spring, my child hand coiled in yours,

                                Sliding like snail where bright bluebell grows in greenness.

                                Trailing long dusky dress, lace collared chin,

                                One side upturned, your hat holds pearly pin.

                                Where trout lie low – bending

                                Into weaving water, we observe

                                our faces, blending.

Emergency Greek

I was determined to learn Greek. It was not as easy as I expected but my husband and I wanted to know what our Greek neighbours were really saying.  Gradually my Greek vocabulary increased and even though I had not progressed to complete sentences I could manage a few phrases.

From our house we daily admired a lovely group of tall pine trees. So you can imagine our desperation when the electricity company decided that some of these trees had to be removed. New cables had to be erected and since these would penetrate through the pines there was the possibility of the trees becoming a fire hazard. I saw the trucks from our upstairs terrace. I saw the men with the chain saws and very soon I heard their destructive sound.

I was distraught and automatically went into combative mode – as an upset pseudo Cretan woman had a right to do. I recalled the Greek I’d learned and shouted ‘Crete is beautiful, now Crete is not beautiful, you are a bad man, don’t work in the garden bad man, Matt is my husband and we have a dog, I would like some red wine, close the gate bad man, please, thank you, the beach is beautiful, I like fish, go out bad man and wait for the bus at the bus stop.’

 Eventually, having shouted non -stop for about ten minutes I ran out of steam. The bad man and his mates were hiding behind cable drums, a van and a truck. The dangerous saws had stopped working. I readied my final salve but instead of shouting, ‘I’m going to the police’ I screamed, ‘and now I’m going to the Post Office!’ The workers came out of hiding and the sawing resumed. Today we serenade a lonesome pine.

Winnie the Dog

I’m an animal lover and we have rescued a dog and several cats since coming to Crete. The first dog to come to live with us was Winnie. Her owner who had rescued her from an animal shelter had to return to England and she needed a new home in Crete.

Winnie was about seven years old when we got her and she lived for another seven. A sheep dog collie cross, black and white with a beautiful fan like tail and a snow white apron, Winnie became a precious part of our household. She was welcomed in the village, helped the local shepherd to direct his sheep into the field, let our new kitten Juno sit on her back, lay under the table while we tried to learn Greek, attempted to participate in Art classes and slept in a most luxurious bean bag.

Winnie was the first to hear each new episode from my novel A Place in the Choir. As we walked along old donkey trails I’d tell her about my latest idea for the book. If she liked it she’d look at me lovingly but if in her doggie mind I was talking rubbish she’d turn away to investigate something  more interesting along the grass verge.

Winnie never barked except when a white box van passed us on the main road. I often wondered why she became so upset on seeing such a vehicle and why against her usual placid nature she’d chase the van until it was out of sight. What tales of joy and sadness animals could tell us if only they could speak?

Since we lost our Winnie we have attempted to home other dogs and in each case our efforts failed. Someday when I look towards our gate perhaps I’ll see a Winnie look-alike waiting there for it to open.