September 2022

Officially, summer is at an end, although hot weather persists, with the mercury registering at least 30 every day, so there is still plenty of beach weather ahead for the crowds of eager visitors: Greece has had its best tourist season for many years. I don’t think this was expected by those in the industry, but it seems that many people have thrown caution to the winds, and are pretending that the pandemic is a thing of the past. In fact, it is still very much with us. And there is always something extra to worry about: monkey pox, for example, and now Attica and parts of northern Greece are experiencing cases of West Nile virus, a mosquito-borne illness. Authorities in Attica at least spray the province every spring, but mosquitoes are persistent creatures, as we know.

Two of my three sons have been around during the summer, as have all five of my grandchildren, who range in age from 16 years to 20 months. The younger ones regard their big cousins with a kind of awe, while said big boys are entertained by the littlies. The big ones are addicted to beach volley ball, and the little ones look on and barrack.

I had yet another birthday during August, and rather have the feeling that they are coming every six months at this stage. It was very nice to be given a party at a restaurant on the Kalamata waterfront: the really sinful cake, which had only a tactful two candles, disappeared quite quickly under the onslaught of healthy appetites. Then the younger members went off to play still more volley ball, while others repaired to the beach.

The party was also a farewell one, because two days later my middle son, with his wife and family, relocated to Warsaw. It never crossed my mind that one day I would have sons in three countries, but now such is the case. My eldest has now been living in Melbourne for twenty years, and clearly sees no reason to live elsewhere: he has always said that Australia suits him better than Greece. I am of course very glad that my youngest and his family moved to Kalamata some time ago.

Most people would agree that moving house is a stressful exercise. Moving within a country is strain enough, but going to an entirely new place is in another category of stress, I believe, and I have some experience in the matter. However, so far, so good. The removalists turned up at the family flat on the dot of 9am on the day after said family’s arrival, as per arrangement. (Such punctuality is not always a feature of Greek operations.)

The immediate neighbourhood has proved to be an interesting area, and a convenient one. There is apparently an attractive park nearby, while my grandsons have discovered one of those climbing wall arrangements, and have already tried it out: for 6 euros keen climbers can stay there all day. In the meantime my daughter-in-law, a fluent German speaker, is happy because she has discovered another one such at the local bakery.

Of course there is a great deal of adjustment to be made. My grandsons start school within the next couple of days. Most instruction will be in English. Their English is very good, but they have never had full-time instruction in it before, so that will be a test. French and German are also on the syllabus at these international schools, and I presume Polish gets a look-in somewhere. And they speak Greek and English at home: all good exercise for still-developing brains.

I have never been to Poland, so it looks as if I’ll have to go on an economy drive, or else pin my hopes on a lottery win.

Mention of school reminds me that my elder granddaughter starts school in Kalamata this month. She already has her bag, which was a present from somebody who does not know my views. (Not that my views matter at all.) The bag is bright pink and features Barbie, a doll creature of whom I have never approved. Of course I’m just an old fuddy-duddy. Speaking of age, Barbie herself is not in her first youth, and a quick Google search proves this: Barbie has been part of certain lives since March, 1959! She must know where the Fountain of Youth is.

I must admit I was never keen on dolls. My sister was the one: she used to spend a lot of time wheeling her dollies around, would conscientiously wash their clothes, and would talk to them often. And of course they all had names: I have her favourite on my bookshelf right now: Bluebell. Bluebell and her ilk now fetch tidy sums via the Internet, but I do not intend to sell Bluebell, who is still wearing her original clothes: things were made to last way back then.

My younger granddaughter has a Barbie doll with long, multi-coloured hair. I think granddaughter has a healthy attitude, but Barbie doesn’t have it easy: she is always dragged around by her feet, or else is waved aloft, with her hair becoming a kind of flag.

With summer on the way out, the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness will soon be upon us: the pomegranates are already ripening on the trees.