I'm aware this blog gives the impression we're still in Greece, but that is not the case. We got home on 15th April after making a smooth and speedy journey.
Leaving Tinos was hard. Even harder knowing that friends we'd made there were soon to leave the island themselves, emigrating to the States to look for work.
Sailing from Igoumenitsa to Venice, a 26 hour journey, we'd chosen the 'camping on deck' option, because it was cheaper, and also because I'd entertained a vague fantasy of lying on a sun lounger, cocktail in hand, as we sailed through sparkling seas. Camping on deck was in fact simply sleeping in the van down in the dark bowels of the ship. We were parked on the vehicle deck, next to the chained-down articulated lorries swaying slightly with the motion of the ship. Lovely.
Upstairs, a large section in the middle of the public area had been transformed into a Greek Orthodox church complete with candles, incense, icons and embroidered priestly robes. I felt as though I was on a sea pilgrimage.
Venice was dull and drizzly. We picked up the boys, fresh from three weeks hard roller-blading and cultural immersion in Slovenia with Tommy and Ajda. They were keen to get home. Really keen. We motored north.
It began to snow in the Alps. The van, loaded down with a third of a tonne of marble, roller blades, a new electric keyboard and all the usual bags and baggage, struggled on the ascents. It got colder as we cast around for a suitable camping site. We ventured off the main route and found ourselves in Alpine valleys dotted with sheds. Hundreds of them. Neat and tidy as new pins. What were they for? We had no idea. Snow cover was getting thicker and the temperature in the van was dropping. Max turned the heater up to full and the element melted. No heating. It was going to be a chilly drive. We decided it would be best to get down out of the Alps and eventually stopped at a service station on the outskirts of Stuttgart. Grand toilets and showers for fifty cents a go. No ban on overnight camping. A different attitude altogether to what we would see when we got back to Britain. NO CAMPING. NO OVERNIGHT PARKING. Why not?
Oh, it was a chilly night. Four in a bed, fully clothed and seriously uncomfortable. Sam got the headtorch out and began to take the dashboard to bits in an attempt to fix the heater. An unease came over me but the clever man managed to put it all back together without losing any small bits under the seats. Still no heating though.
The following day, Germany passed in a blur of large scale agriculture and industrial landscapes. We stopped for lunch in a roadside cafe and were surprised to see a jolly topless woman on the lunchtime news. A German model had landed a contract with Playboy, and the German national news were doing an interview and showing some of her best booby shots. Before 9pm. Crivvens. Next up, an interview with Angela Merkel and information on the stock exchange.
We were so overcome with a sense of efficiency in Germany that we arrived in the Netherlands sooner than anticpated and got the ferry back to Harwich a day early. It felt strange and cold in England. Everything looked poorer and dirtier and smaller than in the countries we'd driven through. It was odd understanding what people were saying in garages and cafes. Odder still to lose the tourist tag.
A couple of days with Sam's parents at Auchencairn and we were on our way home, really on our way home. The first thing we noticed as we came up the hill to Toroboll were the three massive wind turbines on the rise behind the house. They are quite elegant to look at, and in an east wind (which has been surprisingly persistent these last weeks) they sound like tumble driers rumbling round and round.
Flora knew where she was, but Hector plaintively asked if he could go home now, back to his beach, back to the Greek house. I knew how he felt. It took a couple of weeks before I could really say I was home, back into the routine of school runs and copywriting work. Back into not thinking about language all the time, translating words and experiences and cultural meanings. I wanted to plan the next journey immediately. Live differently. Push the boundaries. But we are a family of six, and there's school to think about, and making a living. There's a croft that needs attention and a house that is no longer big enough for all of us.
The journey hasn't really ended for me at all. There's still something going on in the mind, in the imagination. A hunger for that acute kind of seeing you experience outside your comfort zone, a desire to look at life from a different angle. Since I got back, I've been inspired reading interviews and articles by Alexis Tsipras, a Greek politician opposed to EU austerity measures. I've got myself involved in online debates about our forthcoming referendum on Scottish independence. These things matter to me in a way I never felt before. Why? Because I saw firsthand what happens to people in an economy that's on its knees, where corruption has passed unchecked and ordinary people are paying the price. Emigration is part of my history - the Highland Clearances, the struggle to find work and land. But emigration is happening in Greece now, people simply can't make ends meet and are risking everything to go and find work in other countries. It could happen here too.
And the creative journey? The marble in Sam's workshop here lies untouched. The novel in my documents folder languishes unedited. We knew it would be like this. Which is why we went away in the first place. The workshop has been full of gates and railings and digger buckets (all welcome) since we got back and my inbox pings with copywriting work (all good). But in the mind there's Tinos. And a view of the sea. Marble dust falling on the studio floor and another page of the novel scrolling on the netbook. Ah, Tinos. Wish you were here.
Leaving Tinos was hard. Even harder knowing that friends we'd made there were soon to leave the island themselves, emigrating to the States to look for work.
Sailing from Igoumenitsa to Venice, a 26 hour journey, we'd chosen the 'camping on deck' option, because it was cheaper, and also because I'd entertained a vague fantasy of lying on a sun lounger, cocktail in hand, as we sailed through sparkling seas. Camping on deck was in fact simply sleeping in the van down in the dark bowels of the ship. We were parked on the vehicle deck, next to the chained-down articulated lorries swaying slightly with the motion of the ship. Lovely.
Upstairs, a large section in the middle of the public area had been transformed into a Greek Orthodox church complete with candles, incense, icons and embroidered priestly robes. I felt as though I was on a sea pilgrimage.
Venice was dull and drizzly. We picked up the boys, fresh from three weeks hard roller-blading and cultural immersion in Slovenia with Tommy and Ajda. They were keen to get home. Really keen. We motored north.
It began to snow in the Alps. The van, loaded down with a third of a tonne of marble, roller blades, a new electric keyboard and all the usual bags and baggage, struggled on the ascents. It got colder as we cast around for a suitable camping site. We ventured off the main route and found ourselves in Alpine valleys dotted with sheds. Hundreds of them. Neat and tidy as new pins. What were they for? We had no idea. Snow cover was getting thicker and the temperature in the van was dropping. Max turned the heater up to full and the element melted. No heating. It was going to be a chilly drive. We decided it would be best to get down out of the Alps and eventually stopped at a service station on the outskirts of Stuttgart. Grand toilets and showers for fifty cents a go. No ban on overnight camping. A different attitude altogether to what we would see when we got back to Britain. NO CAMPING. NO OVERNIGHT PARKING. Why not?
Oh, it was a chilly night. Four in a bed, fully clothed and seriously uncomfortable. Sam got the headtorch out and began to take the dashboard to bits in an attempt to fix the heater. An unease came over me but the clever man managed to put it all back together without losing any small bits under the seats. Still no heating though.
The following day, Germany passed in a blur of large scale agriculture and industrial landscapes. We stopped for lunch in a roadside cafe and were surprised to see a jolly topless woman on the lunchtime news. A German model had landed a contract with Playboy, and the German national news were doing an interview and showing some of her best booby shots. Before 9pm. Crivvens. Next up, an interview with Angela Merkel and information on the stock exchange.
We were so overcome with a sense of efficiency in Germany that we arrived in the Netherlands sooner than anticpated and got the ferry back to Harwich a day early. It felt strange and cold in England. Everything looked poorer and dirtier and smaller than in the countries we'd driven through. It was odd understanding what people were saying in garages and cafes. Odder still to lose the tourist tag.
A couple of days with Sam's parents at Auchencairn and we were on our way home, really on our way home. The first thing we noticed as we came up the hill to Toroboll were the three massive wind turbines on the rise behind the house. They are quite elegant to look at, and in an east wind (which has been surprisingly persistent these last weeks) they sound like tumble driers rumbling round and round.
Flora knew where she was, but Hector plaintively asked if he could go home now, back to his beach, back to the Greek house. I knew how he felt. It took a couple of weeks before I could really say I was home, back into the routine of school runs and copywriting work. Back into not thinking about language all the time, translating words and experiences and cultural meanings. I wanted to plan the next journey immediately. Live differently. Push the boundaries. But we are a family of six, and there's school to think about, and making a living. There's a croft that needs attention and a house that is no longer big enough for all of us.
The journey hasn't really ended for me at all. There's still something going on in the mind, in the imagination. A hunger for that acute kind of seeing you experience outside your comfort zone, a desire to look at life from a different angle. Since I got back, I've been inspired reading interviews and articles by Alexis Tsipras, a Greek politician opposed to EU austerity measures. I've got myself involved in online debates about our forthcoming referendum on Scottish independence. These things matter to me in a way I never felt before. Why? Because I saw firsthand what happens to people in an economy that's on its knees, where corruption has passed unchecked and ordinary people are paying the price. Emigration is part of my history - the Highland Clearances, the struggle to find work and land. But emigration is happening in Greece now, people simply can't make ends meet and are risking everything to go and find work in other countries. It could happen here too.
And the creative journey? The marble in Sam's workshop here lies untouched. The novel in my documents folder languishes unedited. We knew it would be like this. Which is why we went away in the first place. The workshop has been full of gates and railings and digger buckets (all welcome) since we got back and my inbox pings with copywriting work (all good). But in the mind there's Tinos. And a view of the sea. Marble dust falling on the studio floor and another page of the novel scrolling on the netbook. Ah, Tinos. Wish you were here.
