We arrived at the islands home for waifs and strays, early this morning. The sun was already climbing the cloudless sky as I prepared myself to surprise my very dear friend and indeed, an enormous animal lover.

     Well surprise her I did, just as she was about to serve some Italian customers. I shall not tell you what she said, as she spoke in rushed Greek, but I could tell she was pleased to see me and not forgetting, my kind and unassuming husband.

      After a few tears were shed, over a cup of sweet tea, we made plans to meet at her home for waifs and strays. Now let me just tell you a little, about how we met.

      It was nine summers ago, when we came to the island on our honeymoon. We stayed where we always stay, in that simple little room overlooking the Ionian Sea. Whilst travelling to another village, I noticed the beautiful Greek Church in the far distance.

       ‘Turn around!’ I said to my newly kind and unassuming husband, ‘I have a strange feeling about that church!’

        At that time, my newly kind and unassuming husband didn’t know of my many strange and often bizarre ways. I was careful not to show him that I often get that feeling about things.

         Without question, he turned the car around and we drove the few miles over a dusty dirt track until we came to the church. It is late in the day now, and what a day it’s been, so I shall shorten the rather lengthy version. The one I have told to many, many people.

        Well, there was the oddest man standing outside the church, as if he was waiting for our arrival.

        ‘I’ve seen him before,’ I whispered to my newly kind and unassuming husband, and on closer inspection, I was positive that he was the man I had seen earlier that morning standing beside a lamppost in the middle of no-where. And I remember thinking how very odd that was. Now this is true, believe me!

        He had a key in his hand and greeted us with a huge smile just as if he had met us before. A gush of Greek words poured from his mouth, which we didn’t understand but he kept nodding his head as he opened up the church and showed us around the most ornate building I have ever seen. All the while I kept watching him but I could tell he was purposefully avoiding my eyes.

        Well this strange little man, in very poor english invited us to a dance on the square that evening. So later that day, we arrived at the square to find it deserted. As we strolled around the church grounds we noticed the quaintest of cafes, just metres away. It was old, very old, with a wooden veranda wrapped around it. Now on the veranda were small tables covered with fresh white cloths which many elderly men were sitting at.       

          ‘Let’s go and see if they know anything about a dance,’ I said to my rather confused and newly kind and unassuming husband. And this we did.

           As we entered the very old and yet very quaint cafe, we were greeted by a woman who threw both myself and my newly kind and unassuming husband off guard. She looked so much like me, it was quite unnerving. And instantly, there was an enormous emotional bond between us, as if we had known each other forever but we still hadn’t spoken to each other.

            Well let me just say rather quickly, she made us some fresh orange juice and sat with us at a table inside the cafe, which we discovered was hers. It soon came to light, that we had lived almost parallel lives but in two separate countries, from birth. Not only did we look alike, but we were similar in almost all ways. She is not as crazy as I am and she is also far nicer, but apart from that we are like two peas in a pod. And we both had a home for waifs and strays. And then something even stranger happened. Over her shoulder, I saw a familiar man standing in the cafe doorway. It was the same man who showed us the church and invited us to the dance on the square that evening, the one that didn’t exist.

I shall continue this story tomorrow, from our island in the sun. It is later that you think, so I’ll pop the light off, lay down, and let the sound of the sea lull me to sleep.

Part three (final)

As he walked towards us, my insides became twisted and my head spun. The heat didn’t help and neither did the heavenly scent of the jasmine which hung from the pergola. It just added to my confusion.

       He was real, everyone could see him. He talked in that rushed Greek that I did not understand. And they introduced us to him. He was my friend’s uncle. Uncle! I thought, trying hard not to stare at him but I couldn’t help but snatch a glance or two. I said we had met him on a few occasions but when translated back to him, he shook his head and looked confused. But he was uneasy and disappeared as fast as he arrived.

      So he wasn’t a creepy ghost after all. But he was still a creepy something or another. Why had he followed me and my kind and unassuming husband for a whole week the previous year and denied ever seeing us? He even showed us around the church for heaven’s sake! But my kind and unassuming husband reminded me that he was an old man whose memory had probably faded.

       I helped the sea captain back to his armchair beneath the porch, the jasmine now sweeter. He put up his hand weakly and waved to the strange little man (his brother) who was already long gone. Our dear friend gave everyone a small dish of grape preserve, made from her own fruit, with added sugar, lemon and geranium leaves. It was a welcome distraction from my thoughts.

       And so another year went by and then another and another, and for some strange reason we never saw that funny little man again. But that’s not to say he has disappeared from our lives. According to our friend (we did not speak about our meetings with her uncle again) he still lives in the village. And who knows what can happen?  We are back on the island and about to have dinner at the home for waifs and strays. Maybe he'll be there. Maybe there is an answer to why all this has come about.

Perhaps even after the death of my dear father, I still searched for him. Perhaps I wasn’t ready to let him go. And when I met with the sea captain, another eccentric old man, I saw my father in him..... Just perhaps!

‘Yassas! Hello!’

     With its magical Mediterranean atmosphere, we arrived on Kefalonia. This unique Ionian Island has a certain ambience, especially in late spring and early summer. A wee bit of heaven, my kind and unassuming husband called it, as we headed north towards the picturesque harbour village of Fiscardo. I quite agree!

      ‘What a difference a day makes,’ I said as we made our way through an army of Cypress trees growing up from the mountains. My kind and unassuming husband nodded his reply, trying hard not to hit one of the numerous goats that grazed on the mint, the fennel and the wild thyme.

      ‘It’s no wonder that feta cheese is so good!’ I said, not really waiting for an answer. ‘And look at the size of those bells, hanging around their necks!’

       He stopped the car and for a moment we sat in the heat, mesmerised by the sound that echoed around the mountains. One could easily mistake the clanking of the bells for music and each bell a different note. You really should hear it to believe it. And all the while, the smell of the herbs and the pine, pervaded through the breathless air.

        Back on the narrow and twisting roads, we were eventually greeted by our over excited friends. After a cup of sweet tea and a sticky sweet cake we made our way to our own wee bit of heaven. This is a simple and clean room, with its own kitchen and a veranda but to us it feels like paradise. It overlooks a tranquil sea where the critically endangered Monk Seals visits from time to time. And in the distance, the magical island of Ithaca stares back at us.

I hope to see you again tomorrow with a tale from another home for waifs and strays, right here on this island!

Kalinychta, goodnight!

I would like to just say a few words about a few special people who are reading this page tonight. I know it not a tale, well not a sort of story tale, but it’s a tale nevertheless. It’s a tale about the people in my life who mean so much to me.

     My kind and unassuming husband and I are about to leave our home for waifs and strays, to visit some friends on a beautiful Greek Island. In fact, we leave in just one hour. It is very short notice and wouldn’t be possible without the help of our very dear family and friends.

     As we move out, they move in but it’s taking us the past few hours to ‘show them the ropes.’ You see, one of our hens it poorly (her name is Thunder) and we had to make an urgent trip to the vets. So not only do our dear friends and family have the task of sorting feeding and watering of our animals, but they also had to have a quick lesson in how to administer antibiotics to a hen. But I have to say, they passed with flying colours.

     Then there’s the allotment, growing faster each day. And the greenhouses filled with tomato plants and all sorts of things edible.  I’m amazed that these wonderful people offer to stay at our home for waifs and strays.

     So we shall leave now, knowing our animals are safe in your hands. And although there is much work to be done, I am sure you will gain something by being here. I cannot thank you enough!

      I shall write each day from our island in the sun with tales of a similar kind.

      Goodnight my friends and family, sleep tight and watch out for slip the slug and Jako and Jake the field mice. Oh, and don’t worry about the strange noise in Mochas old room, it’s just a friendly ghost....I think!

I found a box of wooden toys today, hidden away in the attic. It brought back so many memories of watching my father making them.

     They began their lives as a block of ordinary wood. ‘This is perfect for making toys as it doesn’t break easily and doesn’t contain harsh chemicals,’ he once told me. ‘And the great thing is they will still be around long after you have finished playing with them.’ And they have!

      I can still smell the wood my father took hours and even days to chisel and shape. He would sit at his bench and smooth the wood like I would smooth the cat. And all the while, he chewed on his old pipe, probably one he made himself.

      Sometimes he would let me have a go and sometimes it would end in tears.

      ‘You’re too heavy handed,’ he used to tell me and then he would spend hours talking about when it was once a tree. He would sit there and smooth the wood almost as if he was sorry it had been cut down. Which wouldn’t surprise me!

      At the age of ten I knew the names of all the trees in the woods around us and I was taught how to respect them. I remember the story of the Wishing Tree, where people hung ribbons and rags from the branches in the hope that good luck would follow. And the World tree, with its roots in the earth and its branches stretching up to the sky, uniting them together.

       I would sit and listen, my hands tucked in my lap, as my father talked about trees. He talked about folklore and religion and how, in Burma, the Talein will pray to the tree before cutting it down and in Africa, a woodman will place a fresh sprig on the tree before raising his axe.

      These stories were told in the perfect setting of my father’s workshop, tucked away in a forest. Watching him make me a whistle or a doll from wood was like watching him perform magic!