Ants

  Today was an ideal day for gardening even though it was very windy for some hours. There's nothing better than getting close to the soil. Handling luscious weeds of all shapes and sizes is interesting and the myriad shades of green quite fascinating. I watched black garden ants working away in the flower bed and recalled a time when I planted a large area of our garden with wild flower seeds. These had been sent over by a friend in Ireland and I hoped they'd naturalize among native plants.

   I dug and hoed, rolled and raked to prepare an ideal area for my wild flower seeds. The job took a long time and care. The bag was filled with a mixed variety of seeds including fragrant varieties. I didn't want these to grow into a clump here and a clump there. I hoped for a fairly even looking result. There was no wind to speak of at the time and I didn't have to worry about the seeds being blown away. Birds were a concern and to detract them I bought a few Chinese wind, wand like objects to frighten them away.

   The resulting patch could feature in a garden magazine and I was pleased. Next morning I couldn't wait to visit my new seed bed. Taking the watering can along I tripped lightly (well maybe not so lightly) for a viewing. Imagine my amazement on seeing the entire area in motion Was I suffering from vertigo? On closer inspection I realized that a mighty army of ants was at work. Mesmerized I watched while ants in formation worked like army battalions on maneuvers. They continued without audible signals and didn't stop for a coffee break.

   That morning with the aid of a magnifying glass I saw cooperation, strategy and purpose beyond compare. The ants worked in relays back and forth, disappearing down under and surfacing again. What were they doing with my seeds? Were they feeding the queen, the baby ants and all their relatives and friends. Hundreds of seeds vanished slowly but surely while I awaited an explosion from underground -- surely they couldn't consume so much without repercussions?

   On the other hand I knew that ants tunnel underground. Perhaps they were taking the seeds to another location? Is there an underground labyrinth beneath the soil where my ants can recline in scented splendor? Many gardeners consider ants as pests and some can be such as the leaf cutter and the red ants who bite your ankles while you weed!

   I expect my wild Irish flowers to bloom in Crete someday and will continue to search for new flowers among the usual spring display. There is a saying sometimes quoted, 'observe the ant and be wise.'
I'll do this.

I have to do some digging, clipping and cutting for my new book. Back to the musings of mawsie maw in about two weeks.

Stay well and happy.

                               

                                 

Spike

A long time ago my father got a message to collect a crate from the bus stop. He had no idea what this was all about. We no longer lived on a farm so it wasn't a crate of day old chicks, apples, or raspberry canes. The 'bus stop' was the pub in the town and when daddy got there the manager told him that there was a cat in the box. 'It's come from the Isle of Man,' he laughed. 'and the first thing that's come from there, wherever it is.'
My father told him that oddly enough his great grandfather came from the Isle of Man. He looked into the crate then and a little cat stared back. He brought it home and had words with my younger brother who had ordered the cat in the first place.
Very soon 'Spike' named in honor of my brother's idol Spike Milligan, became a big lad. Being a typical pure Manx cat breed he didn't have a tail, just a little button which intrigued everyone. In our house he loved to run up and down the piano keys when the lid was left open. Usually he slept in a basket on top of a wardrobe in my brother's room. Each morning he head butted every bedroom door to awaken the household. If the usual call didn't come we feared that Spike had spent a night on the tiles.
His nocturnal adventures often resulted in a phone call from the Garda Station asking Daddy to collect his cat who had been causing a disturbance. Daddy, mortified and embarrassed would drive home with Spike glaring at all and sundry from the back window of the car. 'Spike is not my cat,' he'd protest before telling my brother to 'put manners on him.'
Spike and manners didn't go together. He destroyed flowers in the gardens of our neighbors

stole fish from the shop -- although he was well fed, and chased any child he saw eating an ice cream. Spike loved ice cream and would happily lap up  a cone or wafer dropped by a child he'd chased. His legacy is the number of tailless kittens being born today in our town.

Some time after the loss of Spike I lined up with other Spike Milligan fans outside a Dublin bookshop. I wanted a signed copy of his book for my husband. When I reached the desk where Spike was signing his latest volume I told him about his feline namesake.
 'We had a Manx cat named after you Spike,' I said. 'And would you believe that kittens without tails are being born in our town even now.'
'My oh my,' he replied. 'Would that I could have been so prolific!'

Ellie, come home.

   I've heard about writer's block. It's a malaise suffered by real writers and can be quite debilitating.
Am I a real writer? I must be because I've lost the plot! What to do next is beyond me. Ellie, the main character in a Place in the Choir and in the sequel I'm writing is gone. I can't see her, I can't hear her, I can't urge her forward anymore. There's no situation in my mind this minute where I can place her -- but she will do things her way eventually. Perhaps I'll find another character lurking about who will encourage her -- show her another side of life. Such an intervention when it happens will move the plot forward. Watch this space!
 
   If you want to know about Ellie and her life experiences so far you could look on Amazon eBook publications for the revised version of A Place in the Choir. It is available for download on Kindle (worldwide) or by availing of a Kindle App for tablet, laptop or other E reader device. Readers who enjoyed the original paperback edition of the book have told me that the revised version is well worth downloading especially for chapter ten which differs very much in content from the original.

Clean Monday

In the Orthodox Church the period of Lenten fasting begins on Clean Monday (Kathari Deftera). From this day until Easter (Pasca) no meat, poultry, eggs or fish with a back bone is eaten by those who follow the strict fast. Wine and Oil may be taken on Saturday and Sunday and on important feast days which fall on a weekday.

On Clean Monday the entire family goes out together for a picnic if the weather is favorable or they may eat at home with relatives and friends. Food for this day may include:

Boiled or grilled octopus
Boiled lobsters, prawns or crabs with oil and lemon sauce
Steamed mussels
Small fried squid
Giant dried beans in tomato sauce
Stuffed squid
Fish roe salad
Fave (lentil puree)
Horta (wild greens)
Spring Onions
Radishes
Artichoke salad
Spinach pies
Halva                               From:   Food of the Gods   Jill Santorinio - Santorinaki

   On Clean Monday children and adults too fly kites . To see these homemade or commercially produced colorful objects floating overhead is inspiring. Historically kites have have been around for 3,000 years. They may represent national pride, history, independence and religion. The high spirits of the kite handlers is reflected in the expressions of those who watch. In the countrysides kites are flown from the hillsides and the sky around becomes filled with colored hexagons each sporting a tail. Many Cretans fly kites along the beaches too and there is much laughter when children call for help from an adult. Kites can get out of control and in so doing are in danger of being lost to the wind. Excited dogs chase their masters not knowing that what they are seeking has become airborne. It's comical to see an observant dog stand on his hind legs to bark furiously at a disappearing kite. The Greek kite is hexagonal and are often made at home. Kite shaped kites as we remember them were unknown in Greece until recently. Nowadays kites are works of art and can be constructed from an assortment of fabrics and decorated and shaped by the individual designer,

A very special time

The rain has ceased, the sun is shining, the wild flowers look bright and fresh, snow gleams on the mountains and in the village preparations are being made for Carnival.

This is a very special time in Greece and in large cities such as Rethymnon on the island of Crete. Here treasure hunts, children's parties, musical recitals and fancy dress cycling events are organised for three weeks before and on the last day before Lent. In smaller villages lesser celebrations happen which are very entertaining for the local people. The nearest Carnival to our home in Crete will be in the beautiful seaside town of Kalyves.

Already children can be seen walking around the streets in lovely costumes, tavernas have hung decorations to add an air of jollity to the occasion and in yards and open spaces exotic floats are being painted and music rehearsed in preparation for the big parade on Sunday, February 21. The excitement of the carnival period brings people together to chat and to eat while watching their children and young people masquerading as popular heroes, fairies, clowns and incredible creatures.

Carnival   Kalyves 

Painting by Balsam Wood

sea scapes

Yesterday we drove to the city of Chania. It was bitterly cold and we'd had hailstones during the night. On a road above the sea we could see white horses bobbing over the waves and in another place huge rollers crashing onto a beach.

But most intriguing of all were the patterns formed by the sea below a high ridge. I looked down and for a moment imagined I was seeing lace edged fabric floating on the water. These patterns fluttered over patches of turquoise, dark blue and here and there an almost purple sea. They rolled and curled until they looked like great bales of material which tumbled forwards to unwind and rewind before rushing back to sea. Within the folds I thought I glimpsed the faces of people sailing in sea weed boats.

On our return journey the sea was rough and dark. The images I'd seen or imagined I'd seen had
vanished forever.

(wallpapers)

Hailstones in Crete

   This morning hailstones bounced off car windscreens as another phase of bad weather hit the island of Crete.
   Layers of immaculate snow covered the white mountains during the night while thunder rolled and lightning crashed over the valleys.
   Huge waves rolled forward and these forced by unrelenting mighty winds lashed the ports of Chania, Rethymnon and Iraklion.
   Tourist Resorts were battered and tables and chairs which were in place following a few day of sunshine last week were carried out to sea.
   The Plateia are empty today and the windows of the Kaffenions misted over. Indoors the wood burner beckons, cold hands are warmed and homemade soup defies today's temperature of 5 degrees.

Shakespeare re-written

There was an amateur drama society in Dublin which specialised in visiting schools. An excellent group whose performance of 'Death of a Salesman,' 'Philadelphia Here I Come,' and other works were welcomed by teachers of English drama. These actors engaged the students in discussions after each performance and were able get to the heart of the matter. They made the understanding and enjoyment of the play more relevant than it being another exam subject.

This drama group became so successful that instead of travelling from school to school they procured matinee time in a local theatre. Schools joined forces to attend performances in groups. Eventually the programmes began to include works by Shakespeare which were also part of the school's senior and junior cycle.

I had the honour once of taking a group of senior boys to this theatre. They were not dedicated members of the William Shakespeare fan club! We met at the theatre door, handed in our tickets and located our seats -- the boys insisting that these were in a block beside the area assigned to the local girl's school.

A gong sounded, the music began, it was curtain up..

A communal gasp greeted the empty stage until a circular area began to rise slowly. On the top of this plinth an actor stood looking very uncomfortable in a short skirt and foil tunic.
'Hey' a student shouted, 'it's yer man from the telly.'
'Hi Mike,'
Mike (the soldier) waved to the audience. In doing so he hit his sword against a pillar. Half of his weapon fell onto the floor. It was made of plywood.
'Aaah.' The crowd sighed.

A second soldier entered stage left to creep stealthily around the plinth.
 'Come I too late he,' cried?
'Yeah, you missed the bus' cried a voice from the pits.

Mike waved his half sword in the air
.'Fly, fly, fly ,' he roared.
'Fly, fly fly Aer Lingus' shouted the boys.

Scroll forward.

Mike's mother enters in full regalia accompanied by her lady in waiting.
'My sweet son,' she says, arms outstretched beseeching him not to go to war.
The not so sweet sons in my care make sick noises!

Soldier Mike engaged in a long speech extolling his own bravery. Mother wept and in her rush to prevent him leaving for battle she tripped and staggered across the stage. Her maid clung valiantly  to the robe of her mistress. They teetered dangerously close to the edge of the stage, Soldier Mike sensing danger marched forward, slipped on his sword fragment and all three fell into the orchestra pit.

Final Curtain

No actor was hurt in the performance. A worthwhile discussion session followed led by the director of the play and with actor participation. Students were invited on stage to act in a couple of episodes. The company decided not to stage entire Shakespearean plays again, instead they'd choose segments or important speeches. My boys missed the bus home -- a cunning ploy. We went for a Big Mac and chips. Coincidentally the girls missed the bus too!

'

A Memorable Outing

                                         
                                           chestnut                                                   Anthony B.


While I work on the sequel to, A Place in the Choir, simmering away in my head is my next novel which is set here in Crete. To help bring my ideas to fruition our friend John brought us to the village of Topolia. This outing which happened some months ago helped me get a feel for the place. I wanted to absorb the atmosphere of a semi mountainous village overlooking an area of great Cretan history. As we drove the White Mountains loomed to the east, and northward towards Kastelli an expanse of sea rippled gently under a sunlit sky. Our journey took us through chestnut forests, orange groves and clusters of tall pines. Many colourful bee hives adorned the crevices where they were tucked away among the wild vegetation.There were huge rock formations higher up and what looked like deserted village ruins hanging over the cliffs.

Stopping for coffee in a cafe on the edge of the village I was eager to begin my research. At a table nearby a venerable white bearded man was seated. Surely I reasoned he'll be a source of information. My Greek was limited and I hoped he spoke English.

'Excuse me,' I said. 'I wonder if you would know what the oldest church in Topolia is called?'
'Goodness,' he replied 'I'm not that old!'
I smiled in embarrassment. 'I'm doing research for a book you see and I need some information. I don't live in this area, I'm actually from Ireland.'
'Don't worry about that -- we're crazy too!' He laughed.
He then willingly provided very interesting facts about the village and surrounding area. I hope I'll do justice to his generosity, humour and encouragement in my book where Crete is the backdrop..

After this meeting we set out for home. John drove us to Kissamos first for lunch. It was a lovely warm day and we sat at a table outside a Taverna. Nearby men were working on a building, they had scaffolding in place. Children were going home from school and there were a few visitors walking around. Suddenly we heard a great rumble. It was as if some heavy machine was being driven through the square. When our place settings began to move and the table to shake we wondered what was happening. Someone shouted Earthquake and everyone ran into the vacant space in the square. Feeling lightheaded we tried to hang on to John's car for support. It was swaying back and forth and continued to do so for several minutes.Workers on the ground called a warning to their companions on the scaffolding. They stayed where they were clinging tightly to the metal uprights.

When all was quiet and safe we continued our return journey.
 'I'm glad we got our priorities right,' I laughed shakily.
'When we ran from our table John, you rescued your camera. Naturally I grabbed my bag and notebook but Matthew, you possessively clung to your lunch  -- including the knife and fork.'

The White Mountains

This morning the sun shone on The White Mountains or Lefka Ori (Greek) which are a main geographical feature of western Crete. Made of limestone these spectacular mountains consist of many peaks. The highest Pachnes which means fog or morning dew reaches 2453m. Such high peaks are without vegetation. Here in the rocky heights golden eagles live and breed.
One way to reach the the mountains is to take the road northward to Omalos. This is a small village at the north east corner of the Omalos Plateau in the centre of the mountains. It is roughly 38km south of Chania. On a trip to Omalos one Spring we were privileged to see two golden eagles sweep from their eerie, wheel, dive and return to their habitat. It was an amazing and spectacular sight. The wing span of these birds of prey is so immense that as they swept over the car we were momentarily left in darkness.


Alfred Tennyson wrote a poem called The Eagle (1809-1892) which I had to learn by heart in school.


He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,                         

,

Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.                                 
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Harbour Hotel

It was around 1986 that we booked a hotel in Elounda. That was before well known areas of Crete became the tourist hub they are today. I've no idea how we got to Elounda but I think we had to fly via London.
Our harbour hotel was full when we arrived in the middle of the night. We were given a small room at the very top of the house. It was like a crows' nest. In the morning we went to the window for our first view of the sea. What we saw was the island of Spinalonga rising from the Gulf of Corfu like the crinkle cut back of a dinosaur.
Our host Manolis, explained that the room we had booked was not available -- there had been a death in the family and the hotel was occupied by aunts, uncles and cousins. He would secure a room for us in another hotel. Of course if we were happy to stay where we were he could not under any circumstances charge us.
We stayed and in as far as was possible in two weeks we became part of the family. We were invited to attend the funeral service and to join in the meal for everyone which followed. Photos of the deceased uncle were passed around.He was pictured working in the olive grove, in his army, uniform and looking magnificent on the day of his marriage to Irene. Five beautiful children followed who now in middle age mourned their father.
One evening we walked along the seashore with Manolis and he offered to take us to Spinalonga. Next morning we set off in his blue and white boat. As we approached the island, the Venetian Fortress gleamed in the bright morning light. Manolis explained that this fortress had been built with stone from the now sunken city of Oleos which was once  a place of worship for Greek Gods and Goddesses. But the saddest part of the island's history was its years as a leper colony in the nineteen thirties.
Leaving the boat we climbed the stone steps which led to the crest of the island. I tried to imagine how the people who were forcibly taken to Spinalonga had resisted. They must have felt degraded, unloved, forgotten? Peering over high walls I saw huge rocks down below where mighty waves crashed and tumbled. Surely during times of desperation the idea of jumping into this cauldron must have crossed the mind of many a sufferer. And did any person with withered limbs and oozing sores ever claw at the stone inch by inch in an effort to escape? It would be a dream surely to be carried pain free forever on a soft blue sea?
Manolis who had been talking to my husband may have read my mind. 'In time' he said, 'life for the community on Spinalonga improved. The inhabitants had their own shops, medical care, a church and a library. And there was electricity on the island too -- before it came to the mainland.' he laughed.
Did electric light prevent them from crying at night for the relatives they had left behind? Did it erase from memory the healthy children they would never hug again or end those dreams once shared with separated spouses? I didn't think so.
Manolis told us about a woman who tried to infect herself with leprosy so that she could join her husband on the island and about the father who churned his way through the water and came ashore on Crete with his small son hanging onto his neck. They were promptly returned to the island.
There was a story too about a husband and wife who were permitted, as were others at the time, to go back to Athens to settle their affairs. They had a row and he killed her -- and sent her pickled body back in a barrel of fish! He was captured and left to serve out his sentence as the gods intended.
Manolis took us to see the forty remaining graves on the island.  A stone slab covered each burial place for the whitened bones of those who did not survive long enough to be allowed off the island when the leprosy scare eased. Here slumber the noble souls who were deprived of a healthy life in the olive groves, who never trod the wine-press with fellow villagers and for whom the scent of orange, lemon and jasmine had become a memory.They were deprived of that tranquility and sureness which comes from being held close in one's own place.
We returned to Elounda later in the evening. Sitting in our crow's nest we listened to bouzouki music and the chatter and laughter of people dining in traditional restaurants down below. As the sun set in the west, Spinalonga soared in the distance solid and enduring against the sky. I remembered those lonely graves and I wondered if the bones could hear the music too. Maybe they clapped their bony hands and smiled through bleached teeth before returning to their slumbers.
Much has been written about Spinalonga since I was there with my husband and Manolis in 1986. It is an unforgettable place -- it provoked the thoughts written above which in no way do justice to those who lived there.

Feature

   When Linda Talbot, former London based journalist, book, art and theatre critic and well known author of children's fantasy stories asked me for an interview I agreed. Here is a copy of what she's written.
   I am embarrassed and at the same time delighted by Linda's observations. I am very grateful to her for taking the time to do this. I hope my answers to Linda's questions will give you an insight into why and how I write

    Marie Quirke-Smith has a mischevious sense of humour and a rapid response to atmosphere and character.

   As a writer this leads her into explorations of society, a potent sense of place and an incisive insight into people. Her book 'A PLACE IN THE CHOIR' has been published as a paperback and is now on Amazon Kindle. It traces the life of Ellie and her Catholic upbringing, spicing her experiences with humour and trenchant domestic detail.

   Marie, who comes from Ireland and now lives in Crete, explains, “The idea for this book developed when issues arose about scandals within religious institutions. I wondered why this happened. How were the entrants to religious life chosen and how were they trained?

   “I write about nuns in this novel although by no means exclusively. But I must emphasise that the nuns who educated me in boarding school bear no resemblance to a couple of unpleasant characters in my book. My teachers were dedicated holy women, highly educated, caring and forward-looking. The novel to some extent is semi-autobiographical – it’s difficult to write without shadows from one’s own life intruding. But the book is essentially fiction and whatever may ring true to life within the pages is purely coincidental.”

What are Marie’s current views on Catholic education?
She says, “I think Catholic education continues to have much to offer even though the church itself may be on a learning curve and its influence, especially on youth, has lessened. Education is an ongoing process and any educational institution needs to re-evaluate its role from time to time. Each has its own ethos which will influence how people interact and affect the way they live.

How did the story evolved?
“I had an idea in my mind at the beginning of the book but the story took on a life of its own as I wrote. Since the paperback edition was published I undertook a complete revision of the novel. Now I feel I have a more authentic offering.

I began to write the book in Ireland. When we moved to Crete I didn't have time to continue on a regular basis.”

But it was finished and she is now writing a sequel. (which can also stand alone).

“This has suddenly taken off”, she admits, “The main character faces huge challenges which will have to be tackled. It’s an interesting story based in Ireland and Israel in the 1970s and 1980s.”

Marie shares a common dilemma with many writers: “I want to write when I can’t. Sometimes when I’m having a meal with friends I want to be at home writing. Often I’m not mentally present because I’m coming up with ideas which I go crazy trying to recall later.

“I have a problem too – that all the odd jobs must be completed and the house looking tidy before I sit down to write. So I’m often tired by the time I decide to start, then it’s time for  cup of tea – even lunch – any excuse to put off the inevitable. But the urge to write is relentless and a day doesn't go by without a few sentences being jotted down. It’s often a scene which ignites me – like watching the simple contentment of a man quietly drinking alone, before his friends join him in a café.”

Now she is writing a novel set mainly in Crete. She says, “Crete is an influence beyond price. The slow pace of life, the hospitality of the people, the freedom to have the life you desire, the beauty of the mountains, the tranquillity and sometimes power of the sea. Sheep bells and bird song in the early morning. The sound of olive trees rustling in the wind. The valleys, villages hanging onto rocks, wild flowers, sandy beaches and sun umbrellas. The ever changing colours of the sky, those little hillside churches and ancient monasteries, the history of the place, friendships formed, concern for the elderly, love for the children, lights on the night ferry leaving for the mainland, old cities with their harbours, forts and fishing vessels. Village festivals in August – food, wine and raki. And the value of family ties; weddings, baptisms and name days.”

Marie Quirke-Smith has come a long way from her first writing as a child when she was given a pencil of her own and wrote about the animals on the farm where she lived. She has responded to  social situations, delved the motives of those involved, vividly absorbed a sense of place and infused her characters with convincing traits and intriguing behaviour.

It is these qualities born of a natural talent that will render her books timeless.

cuttings & clippings

We had to disconnect all technology for some time because of bad storms. Today having had to catch up on things left undone I've just a few clippings and a memory to share with you.

A father's name is most important in Crete. It has to appear on every official document and on most non official ones too. On my first visit to the Health Clinic I was suffering from an ear infection. The doctor began questioning me.
'And what is your father's name?' he asked.
'Oh no, I said, 'it's my ear.'
The doctor smiled. I need to know your father's name,' he said,' before I can treat you.'
I wonder how many father's, some deceased, and from other countries, ever expected their name to be of such importance in Greece?

When I attended the eye doctor he said me during a particular part of the exam 'look at my ear.' I thought he said 'look at my hair.' Since he was follicle challenged to quite a degree this was embarrassing.
'Where exactly would you like me to look?' I enquired.
Tweaking his right ear he said, 'here, it's usually attached to the side of my head.'
'Of course,' I stuttered. 'I'll be going to the hearing specialist tomorrow.
'Why not,' he smiled.

A family friend celebrated her one hundred and fourth birthday recently.
'How, I asked her have you managed to live so long?'
'I took a deep breath at one time,' she smiled 'and I have kept doing that.'

On New Year's Eve, not too long after our arrival in Crete, there was a party in a nearby taverna. The patrons were mostly local people who were determined to enjoy the festivities. When the dancing began there were stunning performances. Young men in white boots danced in line until unexpectedly one jumped into the air and tipped his heels together. Everyone cheered which encouraged him to new heights. The young women in national costume were composed and danced impeccably afterwards. When it was time for men of all ages to take the floor for a special dance my husband joined them. I watched him doing the steps almost as well as any Greek.
'What if he tries that jump?' I asked my friend.
'Don't be daft, he won't.' she answered.
He did.
He rose into the air, flipped over, and miraculously landed on his feet. He received a rousing cheer and was presented with a cigar for his efforts.
'How did you do that?' I asked.
'With more than a little help from my friends.' he laughed

When snow follows rain

Following days of heavy rain and strong winds we were warned to expect snow. It arrived yesterday morning. We awoke to whiteness everywhere. Great mounds of snow stood out in the landscape, and trees, now looking like fantastic characters, spread wide their magnificent snowy branches. Rooftops and Church domes glistened. The peaks of the White Mountains around us were lost in a heavenly sea of drifts which gleamed in the winter sun. A week ago I'd been marveling at the sight of anemone already in bloom. I hope they will survive this cold snap and reappear to brighten the land.


The rain which preceded the snow storms caused much misery in the surrounding area and in the city of Chania. Houses were flooded, falling rocks and landslides disrupted the daily flow of traffic and the loss of electricity made life miserable for many people. While we marveled at the beauty of the pine trees in the forest and took our photographs others were desperately trying to salvage household goods. It was very cold too -- much lower temperatures than we've ever experienced here in the past. We were eager to light a log fire early in the day.Villages high up in the mountains were cut off while those farther down in the foothills battled a steady flow of water streaming downhill towards their basements.

Although assistance was at hand from the Local Authority, Agencies, and Support Groups a little water can go a long way. In the aftermath of flooding help is needed even more. The support, goodness and neighborliness of people who live on Crete (and in places all over the world) inspires     us during such times of crisis.

Resolutions What Resolutions?

I haven't made any New Year Resolution(s). I'm not buying another track suit and I won't be running up our lane like the neighbour I glimpsed puffing his way uphill this morning. Why would anyone want to  endure such torture -- maybe it's good preparation for running a marathon?

Years ago I went to the first Dublin City Marathon -- not as a participant but as a willing observer. I was accompanied by 'a friendly neighbour' named Matt. He's now my husband and we are far away from Dublin, which has nothing at all to do with what I'm about to tell you.

To look suitably athletic on the day I'd bought a deep purple track suit with silver trim. My shoes -- were a black patent creation with kitten heels. I suppose designer runners were available but I didn't know anything about this. My 'friendly neighbour' wore a green anorak with fur lined hood -- it was a cold morning in October.

We positioned ourselves where we'd be able to see a good number of participants. The crowd stirred en mass when runners rounded a bend, loud clapping and cheering began. There were calls of, 'your almost there,'when there was still about twenty miles left to cover! I saw our butcher run by looking very serious. An onlooker shouted 'fine leg of lamb Mick!'

The atmosphere was one of power and physicality. Feet pounded the tarmac, hot breath condensed into the air, sweat streamed off  oiled bodies, fancy dress and clever logos made the onlookers laugh.
Then runners arrived in groups as the leaders disappeared down the road. I clapped wildly when a company of girls came into sight. Watching them I didn't see a runner in trouble. 'Watch out,' Matt warned, when a man began to stagger forward. He grasped the air as a fellow runner tried to steady him. He stumbled out of reach and fell face down at Matt's feet.

Fortunately there was an Ambulance in position nearby. It arrived at the place where we and others were trying to comfort the injured man. The rear doors of the ambulance opened and a very strong looking nurse with black hair severely arranged leaped out. 'Can you help me to lift him inside?' she asked Matt. He, always willing to oblige, did so. The doors closed and the ambulance moved away but reversed again very quickly. Simultaneously,  I spotted a large leather bag on the ground. Opening the ambulance door for a second time the strong black haired nurse shouted, 'That's my medical bag on the ground there, can you give it up to me?'  Matt, once again was more than willing to oblige -- so willing that he allowed the nurse to grab his arm as well as her bag. Before I realised what was happening the ambulance moved away, siren blaring, with Matt inside.

Stupidly I ran after the ambulance in my kitten heels and deep purple suit. I was crying out, 'where are they taking him?'
'Was that your fella?' a woman asked. 'The poor devil, sure he did his best.'
I ran up the road against the groups of runners coming towards me.
'Hey,' a runner dressed like Big Bird called 'You're going the wrong way. It's a one way race.'
'I'm only going one way,' I shouted -- Chicken.'

What a relief to see Matt's green anorak again. 'What happened?' I cried.
'Nothing much,' he replied. 'They checked my pulse, took my temperature, said ''you'll do'' and dropped me off here at the traffic lights.'

A New Year

   Nature provided the pyrotechnics which ushered 2015 into north western Crete. When the thunder crashed outside and lightning illuminated the surrounding area I recalled a New Year's night several years ago.With friends we were invited to a renovated old village house on New Year's Eve.The couple who had undertaken this project were truly dedicated to preserving the architectural remnants of the past. Within the dwelling there were old arches and alcoves, wood beamed ceilings, and a simple but very large fireplace.

   While we each enjoyed a warm drink (warm being open to interpretation) the weather changed. A sudden storm began to rage bringing with it wind, rain, thunder and lightning. The sturdy walls of the house withstood a terrible battering but as the rain increased in volume it became obvious that the old chimney was more open to the elements than expected. Great raindrops landed on the burning logs to create assorted bubbles which sizzled before exploding. Black smuts floated here and there while smoke which made our eyes water billowed around the room
.
   Our hostess went into the kitchen and returned with an assortment of plastic basins She handed each guest a basin. 'Orange is for the area beside our bedroom,' she said. 'George, take charge there and Irene take this pink basin and leave it on top of the kitchen table. Tom, the yellow basin will do in the bathroom and Julie go to the back bedroom with this purple one.' My basin was pillar box red and my husband's was white. We were to take command in the hallway. 'The roof will leak,' our host explained 'but the exact site is unknown. You see, there's a gap somewhere and when rain gets in under the tiles it flows along under the roof looking for a suitable exit into the house. So far we've failed to solve this problem.'

   It became the duty of each guest to check from time to time to see if there was water in the basin assigned to them. While we enjoyed more drinks, lovely food, music and chat there was a sudden splashing noise. 'Red Alert, it was in the hall.' My husband and I ran to our stations to find the red basin already overflowing. The hall had become a stream. Soon the water flowed down some internal steps and formed a pool in the lower level. 'We need help here my husband shouted.'

   Our fellow revelers didn't hear us. They remained seated by the hissing fire until a great rush of water splashed fountain like from somewhere overhead. Meandering rain water had found another outlet. 'Oh my hair, it's soaked,' Julie screeched and then the lights went out.
'Darlings, don't move,' our hostess cried. 'I'll fetch towels and candles too.'

At midnight, in a scented sauna of jasmine, cranberry, ginger, magnolia, cinnamon, and peach we held hands to sing, Auld Lang Syne. By candlelight I read the logo on my husband's beach towel --

                                                         CRETE  the island  for
                                                           SUN
                                                           Sea  and
                                                           SURPRISES

                                                 
                                   

Christmas Miscellany

When I was a child I lived on a farm in the heart of Ireland. There wasn't much air traffic then and whenever an airplane flew overhead in early December my mother called us children to the front steps. Standing on tip toe we'd shout our greetings as loudly as possible to Santa. We believed that the pilot of the plane was sent by Santa b to make sure we were still living at the farm.Our excitement was so immense and overwhelming that we kept shouting long after the plane with it's vital information disappeared among the clouds.

Santa brought my younger brother Andy a carpentry set when he was about three. Daddy carried him into the kitchen so that he could show it to Bob our older brother. He was busy trying to put a wooden puzzle together on the table and refused to look up. Suddenly he felt a sharp knock on the top of his head, he shouted before dramatically pretending to fall to the floor. On his descent he hit his head off the edge of the dresser and was knocked out!

My older brother and I began to wonder if Santa was real. Some of our school friends had been talking and not all of them believed in him anymore. It was very worrying. Bob decided that we should set a trap. Our presents from Santa were always left at the bottom of each bed. If Santa was real we'd soon find out.
There was a roll of strong twine in the shed and we took the kitchen scissors and went out there to cut a long piece of it.
'What are you two doing.?'
Daddy was standing there in the doorway. I had the piece of twine wrapped around my hand the way adults do it and Tom was holding the scissors.
'Well?' Daddy asked 'What are you doing?'
'We're going to set a trap for Santa,' I told him. 'It's all Bob's idea.'
'No, it's not, it's you too,' my brother protested.
'Tell me about the trap and maybe I can help you,' said Daddy.
'We're going to tie this piece of twine onto the inside knob of my bedroom door Bob explained. We'll tie the other end to the back of the chair inside the door. When Santa comes he won't see the twine and when he opens the bedroom door the chair will move with the door -- and I'll hear it.
'And if Santa is there what will you say to him?' Daddy asked.
We hadn't thought about this.
'Well if I was Santa I'd be very disappointed to be found out,' Daddy said 'and I'd take all the presents to some poor child who doesn't have a lovely Christmas like you do. But if you are dead keen to set a trap I'll help you, what do you think?'
'It's alright Bob,' spoke ruefully.' I don't want to see Santa after all.'
'I don't either,' I said as I began to cry.
'That's good Daddy,' said 'and I know that Santa will bring you lovely presents if you really believe in him.'


That Christmas Santa brought me a doll's pram because I believed in him. Months later when the March winds blew and the smoke curled over the roof of the house I dressed my gorgeous cat Minnie the Moucher in a pink baby's dress. She was delighted and purred loudly when I put her in the pram and covered her with a soft blanket. I placed the pram near to the little stool which I sat on beside the fire. Children's Hour was on the radio and a lady was telling a story about a potato called Sammy Spudd. Our elderly neighbour, Paddy Hogan, who came to visit us during the winter evenings arrived just as the story finished.
'Have you got a baby in that little pram?' He asked
'Oh yes,' I told him 'and the baby's asleep. She's teething and it was hard enough to get her down.'
 'A difficult baby,' Mammy laughed as she handed Paddy a cup of tea and some apple tart.
Daddy, with the cold of the evening clinging to him soon joined us beside the fire. He had tea and apple tart too.
Paddy always had great stories to tell.That particular night he had a tale about a a haunted house. 'Every night in April', he said mysteriously,' near to the time of the full moon, a knock came to the door of that old house. The owners had been warned not to open the door under any circumstances. But there's always a stubborn man to be found you know. And one Christmas Eve a loud the knock was heard -- like this' -- said Paddy as he banged and banged his walking stick on the flagstone floor. There was commotion within the pram and a creature with four legs, a furry face and dressed in pink leaped over Paddy's chair
'Well holy God,' Paddy gasped, 'It's alive!'

A Christmas liturgy is special wherever it occurs. Long ago in our small country church a parishioner came to worship well fortified in mind and body against the cold. The choir had been practicing carols for weeks and when organ music filled the air and 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing' echoed around everyone listened in admiration. But the fortified Angel got carried away and kept singing 'Gloria in Excellencies Deo' when the choir had long since fallen silent.The embarrassed celebrant clapped his hands and said kindly, 'thank you, thank you very much.'
'Father O'Brien -- that's my Aunty, ' a child called out loudly. 'Let her sing us another song before you start talking.'

Names have been changed to save embarrassment!

Happy Christmas Everyone and all good things in the New Year.

Children's Stories

                                                                 Children's Stories

   I'm always looking for a special treat at Christmas time -- for myself of course! Invariably I choose a book I've heard about which has a not too demanding story, maybe based on an historical figure or something unique from the imagination of the author. Often during my search through bookshelves, I'v been drawn more than once to the latest children's stories displayed invitingly on tables.Christmas is a time for such indulgence. It's the season to re-live memories of being read to at bedtime. And memories too of being older and hiding under the blankets to read a good story by torchlight!

   I'm thinking about this because I've just downloaded Linda Talbot's latest tale for kids which is published free with Smashwords.

   In A HAZARDOUS HIKE TO PARADISE
   the author writes about FIFI AND THE SWIFTIFOOTS and
   how they found THE FLOWERS OF PARADISE.

She describes mushroom people, a lost fairy and the creatures they collect on a house hunting trek through time. Apart from being mesmerized by the fantastical and colourful nature of Linda's writing, I'm sure you will particularly enjoy the wonderful illustrations by Swedish Artist Diana Munz.. Her work is captivating and awe inspiring. Where would you find such a combination of talent available for all ages who love the world of fantasy? Take some time this Christmas to download, enjoy and share some rare,intriguing and captivating make believe.

Cretan Gold

We've had bad storms here in western Crete during the past two weeks. The winds wrapped around the house. At first we thought these were from the north but the winds of Crete are all embracing, come from the four corners of the island and manage to penetrate all areas. The rain was torrential, like straight rods of cold liquid which bounced, and spat and lashed against the paved pathways, the streets and lanes. Local olive farmers were unable to work while at the olive mill the operatives had an opportunity to catch up with a backlog.

But it was not the end of the harvest for this year. The sun shone again two days ago and it has become warm and dry outside. Once again we can see the pickup trucks loaded with bags, slowly making their way to the mill. There are cars too, whose boots are packed with hessian bags of olives balanced precariously over the edge. On top of a load of bags a dog or two often stand guard looking even more satisfied than the owner of another bountiful crop.

Cretan olive oil is golden green, fragrant and delicious. It is a precious product which has been for centuries the source of good health and longevity among the inhabitants of Crete. It is said that greener oil will have a stronger aroma and a richer taste. However, if you empty a little olive oil into a glass container and hold this up to the light you will see a range of colours -- maybe dark green, pale green, and even a luminous golden shade.

Like wine, there is a wide range in the quality and taste. Flavour in olive oil is natural and unique. Connoisseurs may describe different samples as mild, delicate, light, buttery, fruity, peppery, and fragrant. The expert is able to distinguish subtleties of taste and can tell from which region the olive oil has come. The climate, the soil, the area where the olive grove is situated and the means by which the olives are harvested play a role in the final flavour.

Olive oil can be expensive because it is difficult to produce. Harvesting is back breaking and labour intensive. This work continues throughout December January and into February according to weather conditions. Cretan olive oil which is bought by other countries around the Mediterranean is often sold under the name of the country which imported it. This is an accepted practice because the Cretan oil has been mixed with the local product. But the market for the export of Pure Cretan Virgin Olive Oil, shipped directly from the island, is now being expanded. In our modern world, the names and locations of olive farms, oil producers and how to obtain olive oil products directly from Crete can be found on line. But no matter how the olives have been harvested and processed -- picked by hand or machine, processed in the old fashioned way by cooperatives or in factories using the latest technology, olive oil will retain its health giving, and legendary reputation.

I No Like

I'm back. This computer had to have an update so that I could connect with Santa.

Recently we traveled to do some Christmas shopping in Rethymnon, a city between Chania and Iraklion. It was a lovely dry day, good for walking by the port and along the streets of the old town. The atmosphere was friendly and inviting with shops decked out for Christmas.

When a slim and trim window mannequin stared unflinchingly at me I stared back. She was wearing a top in the exact shade of blue I wanted.
 'I've found it', I shouted to my husband, before rushing into the shop. He declined to follow. Instead  he crossed the street to look at antique fob watches.

I explained what I wanted to a smiling assistant in the blouse department. 'This is the  size for you,' she said. 'Why not try it on?'

I stood in the changing room which was narrow and didn't have a mirror. I don't like changing rooms without mirrors. It obliges the customer to go out to the main body of the store looking for one. What usually follows is advice from every other person around.

Within the tiny dressing space which was without a chair there were two hooks side by side on a wall. As I hung my jacket on one of these, it promptly detached itself taking my garment to the floor with it.Where was I to leave my jumper, my bag, shopping bags and my glasses? I hung up the blue top before creating a little pile -- jacket on the floor,glasses into a pocket, shopping bags balanced over this and finally my woolly jumper.Beneath this lot my handbag was hidden.

With space in which to maneuver gravely reduced, I took the chosen top into my hands. It shimmered and glowed in the semi darkness. Such a simple and roomy piece of elegance was a delight. But I hadn't  noticed earlier that there was an inner vest with narrow straps attached to the outer blouse. Well, I was getting two pieces for the price of one!

The fabric felt very soft and comfortable and the cuff on each sleeve was decorated with little jewel like buttons --  so sweet. Placing the garment over my head I gently pulled it downwards. Nothing happened until I began to feel a tightening around my neck. Attempting once more to move the fabric towards my waist line I failed. It was stuck. I'd put my head through the straps of the inner piece and these had wound tightly around my throat. I struggled and I have no idea how I finally managed to release my head from this strangle hold.

I should have given up, walked out and forgotten my dream outfit. But this was the exact top I wanted. I'd looked everywhere for something like it. I couldn't give up, could I?

Round two, I put my arms into the sleeves which caressed like finest silk.The tiny jewels twinkled at the cuffs as I rolled each sleeve above the elbow. Meanwhile I'd put my head through the designated neck opening which like the cuffs had twinkling jewels around the collar. Something caught in my eyebrow. Blood trickled into my eye. Oh no, I mustn't  get blood on this garment. Quickly I tried to roll the sleeves back towards my wrists, they wouldn't budge. Instead they tightened at the top of my arms. My right elbow became immobilized. My left elbow stuck out at an angle and I became convinced that I'd dislocated my shoulder.The inner vest had wrapped itself around my neck again. I couldn't move my arms up or down.

My breath had become laboured, perspiration rolled down between my shoulder blades, my left eye was blood shot, a neckband of artificial jewels gagged me and a voice from outside asked if I needed help. 'I'm fine,' I croaked.

Where was my husband? I considered running through the shop and out the main door with my jacket around my shoulders.  Maybe nobody would notice? Or I could try to find to my husband in the antique watch shop. But he'd probably laugh, and ask if I was auditioning for a Pantomime!

Her suspicions aroused the sales assistant couldn't resist peeping in, 'Oh, Oh' she gasped. 'You have big problem, here let me help.'
She pulled and she tugged. I wriggled and I squirmed. She called loudly for 'Catherina' who rushed to our aid. The inner vest and the outer blouse were pulled and twisted and reluctantly but firmly pressed into place, the bejeweled collar was adjusted and the cuffs positioned. The girls beamed with satisfaction before ushering me, red faced and breathless, onto the shop floor.There were cries of araios (beautiful).But my eyes refused to function properly, everything looked blue with an edge of sparkle. Then I became aware of body bulges where there had never been such obvious bulges before.I'd always been an expert bulge diminish er. I felt faint, my hair was damp and blood trickled from the tip of my nose.

'You are a beautiful woman,' Catherina, smiled, 'and this is perfect for you.'
'Yes, it is very beautiful colour,' the first assistant added. 'You like?
'I no like,' I almost cried. 'Look, this blouse makes me look so fat, it's far too tight.'
'No, no that's not fat, that is you, and you are beautiful woman.'
'You no like, but it is very nice and very good price,' said the first assistant.'
'I no like,' I cried, as I turned and ran as fast as I could to the dressing room.

Catherina and her assistant followed. Will they have to cut me out of this I wondered anxiously? And what will I do if they ask me to pay for it afterwards?
I needn't have worried. They peeled the garment off with an expertise known only to them.
Thanking them I gathered myself together and ran outside to lean my head against the cool window.  The mannequin stared at me with absolute disgust.

When my husband saw me he crossed over to where I was.
'He tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around.
'Are you alright? Are you feeling tired? Did you get what you wanted?' he asked.
'No, yes and you've no idea what I've been through,' I said.
'Probably not,' he smiled. 'But you can tell me all about it over lunch, you would like that wouldn't you?'

'I no like,' I laughed.