The Weary and Unwanted Road Home: Munich to London via Paris

We leave Munich Friday night to a strange chanting noise, as though a crowd of football fans are working their way through the station. Boozy shouts and cheers. I am beyond tired, as though all the travelling has meshed together with my malaise at returning home, like some bad romance. Being that I was by this point as broke as a pebble, I paid for a seat (€4) and not a couchette (€20) and made a space for my aching limbs to curl up to a deep, dark sleep. Woken only briefly by a train guard who gently taps me on the shoulder and then kindly brushes aside my apology for fumbling with my now battered and travel stained interail pass (he tells me off later though, for resting my feet on the chair in front. I like him less then).

I share a cabin of seats with a very stiff and formal Indian man, about 30 years old, though aged by his old-fashioned neat suit and fastidious attitude. he continually sets his hair down just so, adjusts his watch to the exact position on his wrist and flicks the curtains across the cabin windows into place. I feel slightly uneasy about sharing a cabin with a male stranger, but it turns out I have little to worry about; he is more concerned with order and neatness. Goodness only knows what he thinks of me, looking as crumpled as my interail pass.

Saturday dawns as cold as the night before, mist curling around the edges of the train. We appear to have lost some compartments at some distant stop (in Germany or France?) and I find that I am in the last cabin on the last compartment, which means I can stand at the end of the train and watch the track curve into the distance. I am so glad of my Arron jumper and leather jacket. The train is delayed and my companion begins to panic. He seems remarkably clueless about where he is going and I take pity on him, helping him plan his route on the Metro which baffles him hugely. I explain its workings again and again but he insists he comes with me on the Metro as we are going the same way. I take him as far as I can and when I come to say goodbye he gets a scared look in his eye and keeps saying, "I go with you!" He can't though as he is going a different way to me, so gently I leave him with the copy of the Metro map and the reassurance that the guards will help him if necessary. He seems as innocent as a babe and for a long time after I worry he will be wandering around the Metro tunnels for days trying to find his way out.

My Eurostar train leaves at 12.13 and this time, I pay attention to the Channel Tunnel. It takes about 15 minutes to pass through. I compare my excited, energised self travelling out towards Paris two weeks ago, with this sad creature returning home. Damn how I wish there could be a way to avoid it. The only silver lining is the fact that I will see friends and family, but I want to be back in Budapest and not hurtling back towards work and 'real life'. I hope this trip will have subtly transformed me. Imperceptible to others, inside there is the other me, the free spirit, the one who doesn't get chained to a desk and a small world. I want to try to maintain the psychological distance I have achieved from work these past two weeks, try not to get so involved. I need to remember the distance, remember the fact that it's a small box in a huge world.

The Wonders of de Bahn: Budapest to Munich

Friday morning, distressed beyond belief, I bid my farewell to Budapest, set for Munich. Even Keleti pu, one of Budapest's city stations intrigues me with its chess players who set up their patch with a roll-up plastic chess mat and wooden pieces in plastic carrier bags. Like a small child I watch eagerly, almost willing one of the men to invite me to play, but when one does I shy away, partly because I have never played and also because I have no spare change to pay.



You cannot accuse the Germans of not knowing what they are doing. Okay so they are the butt of many a joke in the international community for their rigid efficiency* but their trains are bloody amazing. I only travelled to Munich, a relatively short trip at approx 7 hours, compared to the epic train journeys I have taken of late. But listen to what DB say about their City NightLine service: "A good night’s sleep is guaranteed – even at speeds of 200 km/h the cushioned axles ensure you sleep undisturbed throughout the night. The new sleeper carriages also provide a deluxe suite with two to six beds! This spacious compartment offers, for example, two wash basins, an optional shower and toilet, and two tables at which you can enjoy your complimentary breakfast." I am salivating at the thought. The Bahn whisks me from Communism the moment I step onto it. Check out the features! From sparse, basic couchettes I am now faced with tv monitors which kindly display a map with the route of the train, a list of stations we will call at (with arrival times to the minute) and all around me clean, shiny surfaces and ingenious side trays from the table with which to balance my cup or notepad. A pleasant android reminds us to check under our seats to make sure we haven't forgotten anything, as we arrive at each station, and as we pull away, same pleasant voice welcomes new passengers on board. It is very strange after being without any comfort or gadgets across eastern Europe; now I am firmly in the world of efficiency. It seems a fitting way to prepare for being back in London - not that London is efficient, but it does like to use automated machines when giving information. I think on the whole I'd rather have a rumpled looking train guard.



I cross into Austria with a lovely, chatty Irish fella who is on his way to Salzburg to work at a school. He is a constant traveller and how I envy him! We talked politics, music and travelling and yet we didn't even exchange names. I love that transitory experience of people passing each other by. I wish I had time to stop in Austria, it looks exquisite with its wooden chalet style houses, backed by masses of bristly dense trees and shadows of snow-topped mountains. It's like something from a dream. I wonder if the people that live here get used to the beauty of their every-day environment, if it ever becomes normal and dull to them. If they get fed up of the equal long winter nights and long hours of summer daylight, courtesy of the high latitude.

I arrived in Munchen at 20:30 and have a relatively short wait for a train to Paris at 22:44. I feel like I really am homeward bound now and it wearies me. The thought of no more adventures, no more random kindness of strangers, no more playing with time. Back to the office and the daily grind of small-time politics and big egos. I can't bear the thought of it and wildly dream of getting on a train to somewhere other than Paris.

* Le Carre's famed The Spy who came in from the Cold has a good passage at the start of Chapter 18 summing this up. It is a conversation between the British spy Leamus and GDR (German Democratic Republic) Comrade Fiedler:

'Leamus, "Why didn't they pull us both in at once? Why put all the lights out? If anything was over-organised, that was."

Fiedler: ""I am afraid that as a nation we tend to over-organise. Abroad that passes for efficiency."'

Martyed Bishops and Thermal Spas: A Day in Budapest

If you were to cut me open, my veins would follow the shape of Budapest, my blood would flow like the Danube. Many cities have the same qualities: fast-paced, anonymous, grand historic buildings and run-down pockets, aggressive traffic, cosmopolitan mixtures of people, pollution, green spaces and a river flowing throughout. Yet each city has a character and Budapest is distinctive by its reaction to the influences of east and west, its history of fascism and communism and its melancholic air. There is something of the noble about Buda and something of the street about Pest and the two contrasts in one city make an alluring mix. Budapest is cut in two by the River Danube, with Buda to the west, characterised by beautiful green hills and a formal, patrician feel, and Pest across the river with its younger, slovenly, more hip vibe. The city is accessible on foot (aided by the simple and efficient Metro) small enough to enable visitors to wander about and stumble across sights without getting too lost. The city is divided into districts, shown by Roman numerals and historic names, which appear confusing at first, yet are really quite simple with both parts of the city easy to navigate to. It’s entirely possible to visit a lot of the main sights in a few days although it would not be a mistake to dedicate one day or more to the thermal spas, which are rather like churches with their attention to beautifully crafted decor (stained glass windows, classical figures, mosaic tiles) and the focus on ritual, as people carefully plunge scour and steam.

I arrive in Budapest after a three day trip from Greece, through Bulgaria and Romania and I have been looking forward to my stay in the capital of Hungary. As soon as I take the Metro from Keleti train station to the centre of the city, I start to experience a strange sensation. On assessment it is akin to falling in love, with a tingling sensation in my stomach, a giddy feeling in my head, and a bittersweet excitement that makes me want to laugh and cry and dance all at once. I feel as though I have inhaled some kind of euphoric drug, as though I've gone slightly mad. My hostel (The Red Bus) is housed within a faded beauty of a building. Imposing windows and black steel staircases all with an air of proud and disdainful dilapidation. It reminds me of Rome and Venice and the dirtily glamorous fall-down buildings, all sinking into noble disrepair. I feel like I should respond in kind to this building, show some glamour, perhaps strut languidly with a cigarette in its holder, wearing a 1940s get-up. The building must find it tiresome to home straggle-haired and combat-trussed travellers who hang off of the balconies swearing and kissing, flinging fag butts down spiralling staircases and dropping food wrappers in their wake. The dorms are spacious and basic, the manager professionally friendly. Like most Hungarians, thankfully, he speaks fluent English. Hungarian is renowned to be impossible to learn. The language seems to be strung together with impossible to pronounce combinations of letters mostly featuring 'szv's. You literally bite your tongue off trying to get around all the consonants. I always try to learn the basics of a language when I travel and yet Hungarian defeats me very quickly. The inner workings of my mouth and throat just aren’t made to voice these strange sounds. I have to fall back on English and German, the latter being as well-used as English.

After a brief shower and relieved dropping of rucksack weight at the hostel, I let my feet lead me and head for the river. I stop at a cafe and purchase a little pizza and tea for two pounds and then I find myself on Erzsebet bridge (although I am sure it has more 'v's and 's's in it than that). Ambling across the Danube from the noisy Pest into the lushly green and quiet hills of Buda is a wonder. In front of me is Gellert-hegy (Gellert Hill). It is gloriously green and it rises high into the sky from a busy knot of roads, into a three-tiered refuge with stone steps disappearing into thick trees and a waterfall. Here I confront my first colossal statue, the first of many. It sits on the second tier of the hill, and represents a proud, bearded and robed man holding a cross, with another man crouching at his feet. I venture up into this oasis, the pent-up fury of the traffic receding into a tranquillity of bird song and trickling water. Again I think of Rome and the Palatine hill above the Forum where the bustle of the city becomes harmonious peace. Gellert Hill is charming. Winding paths twist and turn to the top, filled with lush trees and a cool breeze and look-out points across the whole city. I reach the statue of the two men.

My first thought is that the crouching man is in this posture out of deference but that shows how wrong first impressions can be. It would seem that the crouching man has a more sinister objective. The cross-wielding man depicts Bishop Gellert (or Gerhard), who was acting under King Stephen’s instructions to convert the pagan Magyars to Christianity. Unfortunately for Bishop Gellert, once King Stephen died, the Magyars revealed the extent of their displeasure by sealing him in a barrel (or onto a barrow, the facts are unclear) and throwing him down the hill to martyrdom. Yet, the Bishop got his way in a sense, as here he stands holding his cross over the city, and the hill bears his name. Perhaps more tellingly, the 2001 census revealed that 45% of the population declared themselves to be Roman Catholic. At the very top of Gellert Hill stands the Citadella, and even if it serves no real purpose anymore, it still stands proud, it far above the city and oblivious to all those miniature cars beeping at one another. The Liberation Monument stands here, a testament to when Communism freed Budapest from the Fascists, though the fact that only a few remaining Communist statues remain here (the rest got trucked off to a park outside the city to exist as a tourist attraction) speaks volumes about the tumultuous history of the city. It is such a beautiful and tranquil place, it is hard to imagine the horrors of two repressive states on the psychology of the city.

Next stop: a thermal spa. After travelling across Europe on trains for nearly two weeks, the thought of relaxing in a heated pool is more than I can bear. Gellert Baths are of Roman influence and can be identified by toga clad and bare-chested Romans winding around the frontage of the building, situated at the bottom of Gellert Hill. It is like entering an upmarket hotel and I experience a moment of discomfort until I realise I am in the right place. The foyer is complete with stained glass windows, classical models and mosaic tiles. It feels like entering a religious building and I realise very suddenly how serious the taking of the waters is. Through a warren of rooms I find where I should change; a stocky square woman frowningly efficient shows me to a curtained room where I can lock my things and change. I think there must be a mistake - I have paid the basic rate yet this is the height of luxury - a private changing area, a polished wood locker, stained glass above my head… yet I retreat behind the misunderstanding of a tourist innocent and enjoy it. The pools are beyond anything I imagined and so overwhelm my senses that an article springs to my mind of sharks when they have sensory overload (they apparently float over on their backs and roll their eyes up into the back of their heads). I feel like one of these sharks as I float about in 36 and 38 degree pools. It is like the dream sequence, one minute I am wandering happily through a city free and happy, the next minute I find myself floating in heated pools, surrounded by Art Nouveau and classical decor.

Finally, all desire sated, I glide home to my hostel, crossing the Danube, watching a glorious red sunset, wondering to myself if this is all part of a strange dream. Do people really live like this all the time here? I can’t imagine how wonderfully enriched life would be to have such spas at your disposal, and how less stressful life would be. A bad day in the office? A few hours in a spa would wash away any residue irritations. I round up my day with some goulash and I conclude that I am going to like Budapest.

A Communist theme park? Welcome to Budapest

Szoborpark is the final resting place for the once eminent Communist statues which existed throughout the city of Budapest, before Communism went out of fashion and they were all trucked off. It’s an inspired solution; 'let’s not get rid of the Communist memorials or Glorious Leader statues', you can imagine a decision-maker saying, 'let’s put them in an tourist theme park'. The fact that the park is a fair way out of the city (accessible by bus) speaks volumes.

Over forty statues jostle with each other for prominence, attempting to rise above the embarrassment of their likeness being sold in candle form. Does their indignation bubble, having to bear the shame of being overthrown from their iron grip on power and being collectively junked in an old people’s home for statues? The likenesses of Lenin and Marx forced to simmer with resentment as old revolutionary tunes are played from an old radio set and camera-happy, tittering tourists gawp at them. I can almost imagine them muttering with fury at their treatment and bickering over the 'theory and practice of communism'. Whose voices are loudest, Engel's? Lenin’s? Stalin's boots? Not the Red Army soldier whose role was to once guard the Liberation Monument, although his disillusionment has overthrown his discipline and he and his sailor mate backchat Béla Kun.

Put us back on the Train: Bucharest to Budapest

Train-related songs on my ipod include Train Under Water (Bright Eyes), Train (Goldfrapp), On The Train (Basement Jaxx) and Ghost Train (Counting Crows). I have been on 9 trains since I left Petts Wood on the 6th September, including the Underground and the Metro. It'll be about 15 in total when I finish the trip. 15 trains in 14 days!

Bucharest station is heaving when I disembarked the train. My legs felt wobbly and weak, with slight pins and needles. I discovered the train to Budapest doesn't leave until 8pm and wander about the station curiously. If I ventured too far outside the boundaries of the station, swarthy men would come up to me, asking if I wanted a taxi, hotel, restaurant... anything. I get fed up of saying "Noo" and go practise my sparse Romanian on a drink-seller ("Saloot, cuut costa?") getting a much-desired 7-Up, which I practically throw down my throat. In what seems like an endless loop of the last few days, I find myself a seat at the station and wait for my train. A woman sat nearby feeding a stream of sunflower seeds, showering kernels all around herself. A three-legged dog hid under her seat, taking advantage of the rainfall of seeds and wagging his tail pitifully at everyone.

I confess at that point I felt slightly fed up of trains. The thought of another cramp-limbed night with my own thoughts was slightly disheartening. The constant sitting or sleeping dulled my wits, I didn't write much on this journey, instead I steeled myself to patience and think of what awaits me: Budapest! And also what I could be doing at home, on that dull hamster-wheel.



The next morning, Wednesday, I feel rested after managing nearly an entire night's worth of sleep without interruption. I resumed watching the landscape change after the Romanian/Hungary border checks. The trains are interesting here in eastern Europe; they look ancient yet are superbly efficient, clean and comfortable. It somehow feels like going back in time boarding these battered sleeper trains with no announcements or digital information, just a good old train guard. I like it.

Return of the Night Train: Thessaloniki to Bucharest

Travelling by train is a unique, strange, wonderful experience. It feels so utterly different to flying and not just because of the simple differences of time. Actually travelling through a country, responding to the landscape and crossing borders - there is something undeniably romantic about it. Is the romance tied into nostalgia and the feeling of quaintness? It feels old-fashioned to travel by train, and is this where the romance comes from? I imagine it depends upon individual definitions of romance. To me romance is often reflected in environments and landscapes - cloud-capped mountains, sparkling sea; lush green tree-lined avenues and golden-hued corn fields, turning into brown and russet. It has a feeling of a dream about it; perhaps this is also to do with being solitary and passively looking, not interacting with another human being but communing silently and introspectively with the view out of a window. Perhaps this feeling of looking out into the world, from my solitary compartment lent a romance. What is romance but a projection of perfection, flawlessness onto something? Here I was, safe in a small box, travelling through individual universes populated with a variety of landscapes and people, and yet none of it could touch me or impact on me, except in my own musings. Was it real, did I actually see anything of the real countries I was whisked through? They seem like a dreamscape now. Adding to the feeling of a dream, is the constant sleeping wakefulness, or vice versa. Dozing during the day and waking at night - half sleep, half waking, half dreaming all the time. In a fantasy land of beauty and silence.



The overland journey from Greece to Romania, through Bulgaria, was defined by my overtired and overactive imagination. It was the longest trip I've done so far and for the first time since I left 9 days ago I started to long for some company. I suppose it's the longest I've been without it. I had a couchette to myself (the train guards seem to allocate single women couchettes all to themselves if possible) which in some ways was good as I had complete authority over lights going out, windows being opened, doors being locked and views being dominated, however at times I did start to feel I was stuck in some strange world which whisked past every form of life without stopping... It's not a wonder people go slowly mad when they are in their own company for too long and this trip felt unreal at times; the only company I had was the train guard who looked more and more rumpled as the train ate up the miles.

Eastern europe seems another world to western europe - and I started to feel a strange uneasiness, possibly due to half valid concerns about when I would arrive in Bucharest, when the train to Budapest would leave and if I had enough money to pay for a couchette. I am not sure why this feeling dominated my usually carefree traveller nature, perhaps it was all those dark myths and horror stories about Romania (I kept thinking about Vlad the Impaler, which somehow seemed more real to me than the more recent Communist horror stories), slightly coloured by my sadness at leaving friends in Kefalonia. The other factor was the passport control officials which frankly scared the bejesus out of me, disorientating me from a very deep sleep into a fumbling panic. We must have left Greece and entered Bulgaria around 2am so it was dark and I was in that odd time of the night where things aren't as they seem by day, train noises and speed somehow passed through into the subconscious and sunk into
my dreams. I think at first I thought the train guard was part of the dream and so was shocked into wakefulness when the officials banged on my couchette door, and then a second time in Bulgaria, when I must have fallen asleep again and struggled to flip the latch on the door to the impatience of the officials.

Do I simply crave company just because I am unsettled? Does that reveal something about human nature; the need to express words and feelings? And only when my mood is dark? But is this really communication and sharing an experience with someone, or just using them as a medium to cast heavy impressions into, in order to dismiss the anxiety? It makes me think of Prado in Night Train to Lisbon and his reflections on how people talk at one another instead of to one another. Curious. It's as though humans need a connection of some kind to make sense of the world. I think of all the times I have travelled and seen, or been part of, two strangers trying to communicate with one another. Even if they speak different languages, they still attempt to connect, to express thoughts and identity.



When I awoke a third time, it was mid-morning in Bulgaria. So enchanting to wake in a totally different place from where you went to sleep. Bulgaria is beautiful. It's so green with thick vegetation and shining rivers. The buildings are a mixture of dilapidated farmhouses and sometimes continental, sometimes gothic style homes but mostly I see fields, endless golden brown fields, stretching flatly into the distance. The people I have passed have either been commuters at stations, or those waiting to meet loved ones (like the lady in the beautiful red dress, who stood as straight as a dancer, with a small dog at her feet, waiting for her man stepping off the train. I wonder what their story is?), or children running out of homes excited by the passing train. Their skin and hair is very dark, like the Romany gypsy I saw at Thessaloniki station, who looked as foreign to me as anyone I have ever met, like someone stepped right out the pages of a fairytale. All this watching has a hypnotic effect on me, I feel slightly between worlds, fragments of writing and memory flit past me on the breeze outside my couchette window, my eye to the world.



We reach the Bulgarian/Romanian border in the middle of the afternoon. I had just finished my staple meal of salami with twists of bread, which I brought in Kefalonia. I have it wrapped up in a lilac scarf along with a knife for cutting through the thick skin of the salami. When I was deciding what provisions to buy in Kefalonia, I had remembered the story of when David left the kibbutz and Ziva had given him endless supplies of salami because it is so long-lasting. It is a simple yet satisfying picnic, sweetened by some chocolate wafers in cunning foil-wrapped tins. My passport was checked twice again at the border, the first time by a striking blonde female officer with a husky English accent who expressed surprise at my passport photo. The second check was made by a less friendly fair haired male who spoke little. The border officials are quite intimidating, checking all of the couchette for stowaways (although no one at any point ever checks luggage which could contain all sorts of contraband) and scowling heavily. Or perhaps it's just my inbuilt guilty reaction to anyone who wears a uniform. The weather felt more humid once we crossed the Danube into Romania. The river is striking and a lot of the passengers, including me, flock to the window to stare at the brilliance of it.



Romania is like entering a medieval world, or so it seemed to me. My sense of unreality is heightened, as I feel more and more like I have entered a childhood story. It is achingly pretty, the landscape much like the Bulgarian farmland I passed through, yet the houses have a faded stateliness, run-down buildings in pink, red and orange hues. I sneak a surreptitious photo of three elderly companions sat at a train station, perhaps awaiting a train, perhaps catching up on the gossip. One had a shock of white hair, distinct and bright across the platforms, all three have dark brown skin and the women wear floral tops. There is something hardy and capable about them, and a nobility in the defined cheekbones. I am sure I am getting caught up in the Romany gypsy tradition which speaks of glamour in bright ragged clothes and aristocratic features; these people probably aren't anything like the characters they become in my head. I also spy a horse and cart moving down the track next to the train line, the man wearing a wide brimmed straw hat, his horse thin and hungry looking. I keep thinking of the gypsy woman I saw at Thessaloniki and I can't help but wonder what her feelings are coming back home from Greece, two such different countries. Or so they seem to me as an outsider.

One Side of Greece to Another: Kefalonia to Thessaloniki

Night has fallen in Thessaloniki and I have been travelling for 13.5 hours. During which time, I have sailed from Kefalonia to Greece mainland and bussed from the bottom of Greece to the top. It was a spectacular journey taking in beautiful scenery, from driving on the very edge of land with a view of green shallows and sparkling sea, to travelling through darkly green mountains, even past the home of the gods.


Thessaloniki station - a bust of Alexander the Great (left) and the main concourse (right)

My day started at 5.45 and as I was washing I was surprised by a knock at the door and who should be standing on the other side, but Wayne with the offer of a cuppa before my taxi arrived. Amazing couple. The taxi drove me through the dark taking some strange route which slightly worried me until I realised we were doing another pick-up - a man and boy going somewhere they declined to reveal to me. Despite my mild panic as the time for my bus drew ever closer, they deposited me at Argostoli for my 7.30 bus. I should have learnt by now, Greeks are inevitably late but always get to the ultimate destination on time. I promptly forgot this lesson on the bus journey to Sami, which took a stupidly long time, which may have had something to do with the fact that the coach was being driven at about 5mph. The first Greek driver to actually display caution! Although I don't think I was alone in starting to fret we would miss our 8.30 ferry, it was interesting to note that even after being away for a week and travelling half across Europe, the anxious part of my nature is still in residence. We made the ferry though.

Perfect timing saw me arrive in Patras at 11.30, to pick up a bus to Thessaloniki at 12.15 for €39. Note I paid €45 to get from one side of Kefalonia to the other (45 minutes) and this 7.5 hour bus journey from one side of Greece to another cost me less! I then embark on the most wonderful journey, which is good because I had thought that by choosing the bus over the train (on Stephanos' advice and to avoid the floods in Athens) I would be sacrificing scenery. But it's okay as the bus follows the train track most of the way. We drove through the upper Peloponnese to Athens, through Delphi, Lamia, Larissa and onto Thessaloniki. Mountain passes give way to coastal roads, thousands of scrubby trees reveal patches of turquoise sea and not a person in sight. The mountain ranges in northern Greece were spectacular, I would have loved to spend some time here, if I only had it. Mt Olympus was incredible, the scenery aptly dominating and it seemed the train track actually passed through the mountain, which was a blow.

I took about 50 photos, although due to the reflection on the window, I took most on my mobile. I paid for this with poor quality and an almost overcast afternoon, the complete opposite to the actual reality of a very hot day. Due to the fact that I had no idea if and when we would stop, I drank frugally (beloved Nestea) and developed quite a headache. It was curious being on the bus, I felt like an everyday commuter rather than a tourist, a nice feeling. We passed through lots of urban streets and small communities with passengers diminishing all the time. Strange, that sense of people passing by so briefly like fireflies.


The bus stops at a bus station 3km outside of the city centre, so I took a bus to the train station, to await the next stage of the journey - the train to Bucharest. I am really excited about this, and even a strange toilet experience at Thessaloniki bus station cannot dampen my enthusiasm - as much as the circumstances try (the toilets were being cleaned when I entered, and the way this was happening was via cleaners spraying every surface down with hoses. I don't know if disinfectant was used but everything, even the toilet paper, was sopping wet. It also made it somewhat challenging to a traveller with 3 bags and not a dry surface to put them on). The capacity when travelling to deal with the bizarre seems to increase immensely.



Peloponnese (right and left)





Northern Greece

The Last (Kefalonian) Day

I spent this on the beach. Bliss. I thought it would be scandalous to not have at least one day on the beach and so armed with a book, water, and the BIGGEST pastry I have ever eaten I named a patch of beach my own. The pastry deserves a picture it was so amazing (and so cheap at €1.50).





The weather is cooler and cloudy but it still feels wonderful to laze on the sand and swim in the sea. The waves pull in and out making that restorative lapping noise and a few people bob on the gentle waves. A young boy paddles in the shallows with his snorkel, in a world of his creating, making noises like a car or a jet ski, or some kind of underwater fantasy machine, "Brrr-rrr-rrr-hmmmmmm-broommmm." Boys and their machines, men and their cars, plus ca change! Further out are the shrubby islands and further still, mountains. It's a nice island with some wonderfully friendly people but I wouldn't say it was the most beautiful Greek island I've ever visited. The 'Captain's Correlli's Mandolin' (film) machine sold this place as a paradise but it seems quite scrubby with lots of half-built buildings. I suppose I shouldn't hold this against them, their history has been severe and the earthquake destroyed most architecture but it doesn't strike me as the prettiest habitat with the endless roads and dry grasses. The other unattractive thing is the airport and the constant aeroplanes which fly over, breaking my peace. It reminds me of Battersea in the summer when the planes would constantly wake me or crash into my solitude. There is something so intrusive about plane noise, unlike vehicle traffic which I can seem to get used to. However the money and tourism these planes must bring to the island must make up somehow for the destruction it inevitably brings. Yet the island has some spectacular views, out to sea and out to the mountains and has some pretty harbours such as Argostoli (where I bought some amazing pashminas) and Evfimia.

A man sits very close to me and does the usual thing of staring unashamedly at my body. I hate the way I feel uncomfortable and self-conscious in a bikini even with shorts and am torn between pulling my long sleeve top back on and not wanting to have my actions dictated by unwanted attention. Do most women enjoy this? A frankly unattractive man staring at them as if his right to do so? Would I mind if he were attractive? I think I'd still feel affronted.




I felt a sadness on the beach, my days of relaxation on this lovely island are almost over and I want more days, I am greedy for them! I don't want to leave my perfect apartment, my balcony, I want to stay and pass the time of day with Stephanos and George, I want to learn Greek and I want to write all day... I want, I want. Currently this seems to have so much more value than the hamster wheel at home. And what do we do it for? Caught up in our trap of mortgage repayments, rent, bills... and for what, to then be made redundant, dismissed like you are nothing. I should be grateful I have a job to go back to in this current climate, but actually I wish I didn't, I wish I could find some menial job here in the sun...



Later, as I am prepare to go down to eat and drink goodbye with everyone at the apartments, the most terrific thunderstorm starts. It reminds me of Eng Lit and 'pathetic fallacy'. Had the most wonderful evening with everyone, drinking and eating and chatted to some new guests who had arrived that day. First off a couple in their 70s or thereabouts (it seems I am revising my ideas about age on this trip as this is the second time I have met someone - or sometwo - in their 70s and been astounded at how fit and young they seem) who are from the UK. The man looked like a younger version of my grandad, the exact same colouring, and it turns out he is from South London too (Bermondsey). He mentioned his travels in the Air Service and also as a Xerox employee which included postings to Russia, Yugoslavia, Poland, Romania, Hungary and Bulgaria. He was really interested to hear I was visiting the latter 3 and told me I would love Budapest confirming my expectations of the beautiful architecture and uniqueness of the city. He also spoke highly of Poland ("the people are very kind") and said Romania and Russia had both fascinated him. He seemed so vibrant and open-minded, considering things carefully before offering opinions. At this point his wife joined in the conversation and we started talking about Silchester, in Berkshire (UK) which is where they live. We got to talking about this in great enthusiasm because I spent 6 years living and studying in Reading, and I remembered Silchester as the site of an archaeological dig where a lot of Roman remains had been found. Another couple, Dave and Becky, were fascinating and in particular I spoke to Becky for a long time, actually quite sad I won't get to know her better. She was very intelligent, yet incredibly not only did she have cerebral palsy she also had a "minor" brain tumour for which she was being treated by medication. She was so determined, so quick of mind and yet she mentioned more than once of how the tumour had wrecked her memory and speed of mind, which made me marvel at how she was prior to the supposed deterioration she described. I feel loathe to describe these conditions because it was her force of character that defined her, rather than any disability, but she was so inspirational, so vibrant and alive, that I was awed by her spirit. She told me about her degree and her MA (we were both history students, as was her partner, so we got quite involved in that for a time) and also her writing (again something we had in common). I felt like there was some kind of understanding between us and I felt myself wanting to confide in her and ask her opinion on certain things, yet I only spoke with her for such a limited time, before her tiredness got the better of her. She said she had never not known pain, which I thought was incredible.

Leave-taking was hard. Sheila and Wayne gave me about 20 hugs between them, and I had heard them saying to the other guests how brave I was for travelling on my own and other such things, almost like proud parents. It was really touching, given how brusque they can be, it was amazing to have inspired such kindness. Saying adio to Stephanos was horrible, he has such a mixture of sweetness and gentleness, so strange how you meet people for such a short time period yet feel like you have know them a lifetime. It's so bizarre how lives touch together and then break away, we none of us may ever see each other again and yet we shared this intimacy for a short space of time. I wonder what they will all gain from Kefalonia?

Cafe stop, Argostoli

I am sitting in a strangely dark cafe (it's brilliant sunshine outside) in Argostoli, which is to the south west of the island (I seem to gravitate to the south west wherever I go). I am half asleep as I went to bed in the small hours and then was woken from strange dreams about home and Italy and Hungary by a knocking at my door. Stefanos was going to visit his sick mother in hospital and offered to take me with him to Argostoli so I could buy a bus ticket for the next stage of my journey tomorrow. We had originally planned this for 11ish but now he needed to go at 9am as he has to visit his mother, clean the apartments, then go to a christening. I was all blurry eyed and still inhabiting dream world but croakily said, I'll be down in 10 minutes.... and so here I am in Argostoli, in need of a coffee. But with my bus ticket.

After just 5 days, I feel totally embedded into the life of this island. I landed on my feet in my choice of apartments. The owners Stephanos and George are amongst some of the nicest people I've ever met and are typically Mediterranean in their warmth and interest. They will do anything for their guests and they treat you as one of the family, sitting with you for hours chatting over tea/coffee or driving you into Argostoli to buy a bus ticket! The poor brothers are struggling to keep their business afloat with the recession and also their mother is dying in hospital so they are back and forth visiting her. I feel like I've known them for years, how can this be? I am sorely tempted to stay here forever, with my balcony view to the sea and do what I have always dreamed of doing back in that horrible office: read and write in the sun every single day.

I leave tomorrow and I feel sad but so far this trip has been wonderful. I have remembered why I so love travelling alone - I love the freedom, the liberation, the way I feel like I am truly me when I travel, not things other people want me to be. And to get away from boring work, play, sleep, work... you travel and you wonder why the hell you don't do this all the time. Perhaps eventually this would become a routine too...? My next exciting leg is tomorrow: leave Argostoli on a bus to Sami to pick up the 8.30 ferry to Patras; then get a bus to Thessaloniki or go via Athens on train; train straight to Bucharest or a night in Thessaloniki; Bucharest to Budapest arriving Wednesday staying until Friday; then on Friday train to Munich via Austria; arriving Friday and then a train to Paris arriving Saturday. Finally a train back to London...

I cannot wait until Budapest.