And now I sit, a little over a month later, staring at an abyss. Two weeks ago I woke up with an excruciating pain in my lower abdomen. By the end of the day a rash of large red blisters had shown its ugly head. Luckily, in the interim, I had managed to obtain an appointment with one of Faringdon's GPs. Particularly luckily, she was able to see me later that afternoon and was sufficiently concerned to secure a hospital appointment for the next morning. I was to spend the majority of the day in the John Radcliffe Emergency Assessment Unit (EAU) being thoroughly tested for Diverticulitis, a fairly nasty condition, which can recur again and again once one's had it the first time. But, in the grand scheme of things, a condition tolerable enough for an old geezer whose main ambition was to spend most of his time with his 3-month old granddaughter.

​Then  the  Shit  Hit  the  Fan.

While the expert team was poking around in my vascular system to try to ensure they had the best quality blood to combat the Diverticulitis they discovered that any blood I needed to do anything was running out fast. Transfusions were called for and bags of platelets. Worse still, I was particularly deficient in white blood cells. A Haematologist was summoned from the Churchill, Oxford's specialist cancer hospital and he proceeded to drill into my hip in search of the vital leucocytes[2] within my bone marrow.

At the root of all this was something a lot more dangerous than Diverticulitis: Acute Myeloid Leukaemia (AML). AML is almost invariably inevitably fatal for someone of my age. 

​This probably requires an explanation of life expectancy for people of my age[3] who are suffering from AML: it is quite variable depending on the body circumstances of which there are too many to delve into here. The bottom line is, though, that, unless the diagnosis changes, I will be lucky to live much beyond the age of 75/76.

​Let's hope that with a brand-new grandchild, Niamh, it will be beyond the end of that zone so that there is a small chance she will remember her grandad into later years.

How did all this come about?

Well I'm sure many will deny this but I still suspect there is a drift in COVID that has reduced the population's resistance to the nasties out there in the atmosphere. In my own case, the slipping away from health has left me desperate to regain fitness after successive bouts of the dreaded disease. The last time I "had[4]" it I was in Portugal in October last year and felt very ill for intervals during the 10 days or so that I was poorly. I won't bore you with that because I covered it in the previous blog.

But I had felt I'd reached some sort of equilibrium for a while, 4 months and counting, maybe. My walking had stabilised at about 5 miles for an outing and I felt I should be content with that despite having been knocking out 50 miles on my bicycle when the whole slip and slide began at the beginning of 2020.

The diverticulitis came as a bit of a shock two weeks ago but still overcomeable until it was overtaken by the Leukaemia.

Now I'm just bloody scared and headed off to the haematologist yesterday morning to find out what the next steps might be ... I fear Chemo but what must be must be. I have to be a useful grandfather before the earth's jaws open.

Fortunately the haematologist at my first encounter agreed that a somewhat gentler therapy might actually be more effective at prolonging my life. She went as far as saying the Chemo might even kill me. We shall see over the next weeks, months and, hopefully, years.

Some positive takeaways from this shock are worth highlighting.
​
NHS Care

The staff in the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford were all but exemplary.
From the polite and smiling cleaners to the most senior medical specialists and consultants.
A particular consultant on duty on the EAU took it upon himself to extract Shan's phone number from me  so that he could phone her to convey the worsening circumstances (i.e. that they were now dealing with Diverticulitis and Leukaemia and that I was more likely to be spending a week in hospital than a day). It was a hard blow to suffer but he ensured it was conveyed to her in the most sympathetic manner. Shan was touched.

I was transferred from the EAU in the middle of the night to the Complex Medical Unit (CMU) where I was given a private room because of my susceptibility to infection and where I was to remain for the next week.

Human interludes

With tears comes laughter: My friend Ready was determined that I wasn't going to spend the Sunday afternoon of a key 6-Nations rugby match on my Tod and without the essential accoutrements (necessarily toned down to 0% alcohol beer and pretzels for the great day). Unfortunately for Ready he had to overcome 3 obstacles to make it all happen: wear a bike helmet on the insistence of an insistent daughter and which left him with a big red patch on his forehead for the afternoon - he hadn't had one of his own and had to borrow his wife's; climb the only steep hill in Oxford on his bike; get the rugby coverage on my i-Pad working before the game started ... no mean feat as he'd assumed kick-off was at 14:15 when it was actually at 15:00.
"Do you want me to start the game on replay," he announced proudly when he'd finally tamed ITVx (it should have been on the BBC but apparently they don't like i-Pads). So we watched the entire match in real time and happily England won comfortably against Italy (but not quite as much as the beating they gave Ireland a week later!) 
​
I was feeling a bit maudlin a night or so later when I decided to listen to La Bohéme. No doubt trying to expurgate the feeling of deep sadness I had felt about depriving little Niamh of one of her grandfathers before an age she would actually remember. The closing Che Gelida Manina had the obvious effect, just as it had decades earlier when Ready and I, our wives, and a bunch of friends attended the Welsh National Opera Performance in Oxford. Even then there wasn't a dry eye amongst us, despite the strapping young couples we'd been.

And then there was the low-flying, record-breaking intervention Starry performed in his sleek black Alfa Romeo, bearing a delicious salad for my lunch and his usual naughty wit interspersed with intelligent philosophical observations. Friends eh! What would one do without them?

Shan​: Shan and I have been side by side through thick and thin for nigh on 45 years. Most of the caring traffic has been in one direction; you guessed it - from her to me and that at no time more than the past two weeks.

But, before that there was the vigil (along with Kate for some of the time) at the gargantuan University of Caen Hospital in Normandy, where I was trepanned to relieve the pressure of a pint of blood between my brain and my skull after a bicycle accident. There were also a few days in the London Clinic (also with Kate) while I had a radical prostatectomy to permanently delete my prostate cancer.

But these last two weeks were caring beyond the bounds. Parking at the JR is all but impossible in the mornings unless you are Shan, who left home at 5 am in order to get pole position and to be at the ward door when it opened at 6 am. Every morning like clockwork and she had the nursing staff eating out of her hands.

Neither of us was guilty of this but someone in the JR diaspora had suggested that Shan might be a retired GP. By the time we reached the Great Western a week later on the outskirts of Swindon, the consultant asked her the same question. Didn't do any harm but it certainly opened the conversation.


​More small anecdotes about this wonderful coterie of friends in blog episodes still to be written ...

Above: view from bed as Covid takes hold a short crawl away ... the story of the next 5 years follows.

What is the downward trajectory as one passes into the 8th decade? For me it's been akin to falling off a cliff and I still don't know the answer.

I really don't know how many times I've had Covid/long-Covid over the past 5 years. Hindsight suggests it afflicted a select few before it became a thing in March 2020. But a bunch of us attended New Year together a few months before that and some ended up with severe symptoms over a sustained period.

So much so that a couple of close, dear friends became extraordinarily ill, to the extent they thought there might be a significant chance of not recovering. They even reviewed their wills. Shan and I were ill in the same period but not quite to the same extent.

Covid wasn't a generally used word at that stage.

But it soon was to be.

March 2020

After a considerable amount of prevarication, Boris Johnson declared the first Covid lockdown on 23 March 2020.

However, the general public seems to have second-guessed him on the 5th. I had been in London on a WSET wine-tasting course from the 2nd and planning supper with my cousin, Stuart, over from Johannesburg, on that Thursday, the 5th. It was the day most of London decided to take unilateral action and declare their own lockdown. Stuart apologised and retired to his hotel room. I completed the course and set off for home, grabbing a bite and some celebratory wine en route. I had a little time to kill before my train home.

.Above (l-r): a very tame celebration of successfully completing my wine course some expensive wine and a small supper on my own in the usually thrumming wine bar in the Paddington Basin; another customer arrived eventually and one or two others meandered in from time to time. London was a Ghost Town.

After that there was a fairly extended "phoney war", with endless visits to Covid testing stations (a.k.a. car parks), sitting in one's own car while extracting one's own body fluids, handing it over, in what were more like toll plazas, to inexperienced staff who really didn't know what they were doing.

October 2020

And then Shan and I got it, big time, confirmed by testing positive. We were invaded by symptoms that were scary and without a lot of guidance as to what the outcome might be. Fading away in the night was an imagined possibility. But just when it seemed it would go on forever, the symptoms began to lift.

I, personally, had been pretty fit before the lurgy set in and was determined to expunge it as quickly as possible once I started feeling a bit better. For a week or so all went well and the training regime I had set myself seemed to be showing positive results. I could breathe more freely and oxygen-rich blood was apparently surging around my system. A week or so in, I felt pumped.

November 16 2020 - Shan's 60th

Lockdown 2 was declared on November 5. We were again subject to social curtailment. All previously conceived plans for a celebration of Shan's entering her 7th decade quickly evaporated. And then I had a brainwave. Egged on by recently successful web-based meetings and by a (fairly) locally-based Michelin-starred restaurant that did posh takeaways. I mean really P.O.S.H.: The Harrow at Little Bedwyn. We'd been there a year previously for her 59th and it was perfect. Why not have a couple of small virtual parties? I'd don a mask and do a pre-conference distribution circuit so that all participants were charged with food and wine, set up Microsoft Teams[1} sessions and Bob would be our auntie!

Kate, Andrew, Fiona and DJ[2] were quickly brought on board for the first 6-way teleconference.
A 26-mile drive to collect the food was a small price to pay. Apart from the cloak and dagger collection for the first web-party everything went pretty splendidly.
​
Pauline, Mike, Sian and Roger[3] were all lined up for the second session. Somewhat disturbingly, during the follow-up drive to The Harrow, I started to feel quite peculiar. The symptoms from a few weeks previously were making themselves felt again. As if the pumps were gradually being turned off.

​Thankfully the process was fairly gradual. And, happily, the second virtual feast went well. I can't remember now exactly how long it took but my post Covid highs, of walking and cycling briskly around town and the surrounding countryside, just began to ebb away.

It took a while to overcome me but eventually I had to stop for a rest halfway through a walk into the centre of town. The total distance: approximately half a mile!

At first this felt lonely. My friends and fellow-cyclists wanted to expunge their Covid experiences and weren't really up to taking on negative vibes while they were regaining their fitness. 

Long Covid taken seriously 

​The NHS, however, was pretty quick to respond to this new phenomenon of Long Covid and swung into action. Support groups were created and exploratory entities were instigated at major hospitals such as the John Radcliffe (JR) in Oxford. Online interviews were conducted and hospital visits arranged for those who were identified as presenting the symptoms of the dreaded long-term strain of the disease.

My personal response was upbeat. Someone cared. A sympathetic doctor discussed my experiences with me during a long consultation. She referred me to online groups who compared symptoms and possible paths to positive outcomes. I was summoned to the hospital for physical tests. 

​All in all I felt I was in the caring of good people. I was "diagnosed with" Long Covid and appended to various appropriate groups set up by the NHS.

And then I guess the budget ran out or the government wanted to brush the issue under a convenient carpet. Long Covid activity began to evaporate. We were on our own. A bit like those afflicted a few years earlier by ME[4]​.

​Christmas 2020 - New Year 2021

This was when Boris (allegedly the Prime Minister) completely lost the plot. Caught between unpopularity and people dying in rapid succession, lockdowns happened with varying vigour from county to county. We lived in Oxfordshire and Kate and Andrew lived in neighbouring Berkshire (we all still do). On 21 December 2020 Berkshire was declared to be more naughty than Oxfordshire.

​Christmas presents for most normal people had already been procured by then. We were faced with the dilemma of having an even more miserable Christmas and came up with a mitigation plan (an inadequate one but better than nothing) in which we found a big enough lay-by on the county border to park at opposite ends and place gifts in piles in between ... still not sure it was legal but then a week later more counties were added to the naughty box. It was hard to catch up.

Late Above (l-r, top to bottom): learning to breathe again in March '21; in June '21, I managed a 1.4 mile walk in South Cerney with the consolation of this picture of the undercarriage of a brick built Victorian bridge; (next three) an annual visit to the Cotswold Sculpture Park; and so it continued with social distancing at lunch in July '21!

Full health was illusive: each time I felt I was recovering, symptoms reappeared with the end fitness point way below the previous one. March had me blowing into a bottle of water for significant periods every day - maybe that helped my breathing a little, it was recommended by the JR. Walking outings had companions storming ahead while I trailed behind. Photography became a crutch; an excuse to toddle along at the rear.

Late 2021 - early 2022

​Covid restrictions on flying in and out of the UK at the end of 2021 influenced us to extend a trip to Hermanus in South Africa to 5 months. Walking around that seaside resort was a great attraction hampered only by having to walk on my own most of the time; I was unable to keep up with others. In the recent past I would have been ​striding along with the best of them.

On our return my cycling activities dwindled from pre-Covid 40-50 mile outings on my beloved 7 Kg Bianchi to something more manageable. These shorter rides had continued until the first onslaught of Covid. After that, in between episodes, I managed to pedal with increasing difficulty until I had no chance of keeping up with even the slowest group[5]. In frustration towards the end of 2022, I bought a state-of-the-art Trek Verve +4 eBike weighing in at 24 Kg.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): my swan-song as chair of Farcycles saw a bunch of us take part in the Cape Town Cycle Tour in March of 2018; my first Bianchi was "totalled" when I was forced into a ditch by a delivery van on a quiet country road between Fairford and Southrop, smashing the head tube; with some help from insurance and a bit from my own pocket I acquired this beauty seen here on the Ridgeway after a sprightly sprint up into the Berkshire Downs; in late 2022 I purchased this Trek e-Bike.

Yes, the Trek could get me up hills again. Often even faster than most other cyclists. But it felt somehow like cheating; less of an achievement. It was also heavy to move around and clunky to mount and dismount. I tried getting back on the Bianchi and it was lovely downhill and on the flat but I had get off and push, even on relatively insignificant hils.

​So I reduced my cycling to helping complete beginners or riders who'd been off for a considerable amount of time. I was managing OK until a minor Covid (?) incident caused another setback. At this point in mid-2024 I had been satisfying my cyclophilia by volunteering in the Farcycle shop but lifting bikes on and off stands became a major chore.

Wheezing around Spain and Portugal in September 2024

Relaxing in Northern Spain was initially a tonic[6]. Mostly things were going splendidly until we got to Oviedo. Then the coughing started. I know this because I kept Shan awake most nights. I thought the lurgy would disappear but it accompanied us to Santiago de Compostela and then into Portugal. First to Valença, then to Viana do Castelo, Porto and Ferradosa on the Douro.

It's hard to say whether Porto or Ferradosa were the worst. Maybe Shan has an opinion on that. Porto is a pretty steep place and walking around was literally breathtaking, especially getting to the "penthouse suite" of our accommodation. I'm not sure my dear wife slept more than a few hours all the time we were there with my constant coughing.

For me the nadir occurred in the otherwise perfect refuge in Ferradosa[7] with its gorgeous scenery over the Douro and the vine-laden hills surrounding it.

My coughing continued at night but otherwise, apart from being a tad breathless walking in the hillside vines, I was in heaven.

Until I stood up from dinner in our host's atmospheric fine-dining area; my intent was to join Shan on the balcony to look out over the river in the moonlight. I had been chatting with our hostess, Isabel,  and the next thing I knew was Isabel calling "Mark, Mark". I was about twenty feet away from the table (near the door to the balcony) and had no idea of how I had got there. I think my nose was bleeding from the fall. Isabel was leaning over me, most concerned. Shan was behind her having heard the commotion from the balcony and took me back to our room.

That was the worst occurrence of its sort but several lesser incidents have occurred between then and now when I suddenly feel as if I am losing all context and have no idea where I am or what is happening. One such incident happened in Oxford's Ashmolean Museum where we were attending a special exhibition with friends, Joanna and Tim. I was a little tired and sat down on a bench. When I stood up I went into some sort of semi-conscious state in which I was rapidly becoming unaware of where I was or who I was and what was happening to me. Bizarrely I was aware that I was unaware, if that makes sense. Somehow, through sheer will-power, I managed to pull myself out of this abyss and continue to function "normally". I felt exhausted. 

Forty-five miles of cycling become 5 (10 with long rests along the way) miles of walking

Having been OK to cycle 40-50 miles at the beginning of 2020, I find myself out walking around the town 3-4 days a week. I try to do 5 miles and I manage it with a little discomfort. The incentive for doing this is that I am most fortunate to have a group of friends (officially known as the Reprobate Retirees) who tolerate me staggering along with them on regular walks. These walks tend to be 10-12 miles in distance and occur every six weeks or so. 

I am able to sort of keep up thanks to a couple of obligatory pub stops along the way, which allow my legs to recover sufficiently to get to the next boozer.

I truly love these outings although I still occasionally look wistfully at a lightweight bicycle and imagine skimming along the scenic roads that surround Faringdon, our town in Oxfordshire.

[Endnotes]:

1. Then and now the all but ubiquitous teleconferencing facility.
2. Our daughter, son-in-law and two of our close friends.
3. Other close friends.
4. Myalgic encephalomyelitis, also called chronic fatigue syndrome or ME/CFS, is a long-term condition that can affect different parts of the body. The most common symptom is extreme tiredness (source: NHS online).
5. ​The Farcycles blue rides of around 20-25 miles.
6. ​a) https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/classic-blogs/goodbye-air-travel-the-real-journey-starts-in-montparnasse b) https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/classic-blogs/across-the-top-of-spain-the-marvel-of-bilbao c) https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/classic-blogs/nw-spain-in-9-days-what-kind-of-eejit d) ​https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/classic-blogs/are-spain-and-portugal-both-in-the-eu
7. see https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/classic-blogs/searching-for-and-finding-portuguese-nirvana
8. https://www.readingchronicle.co.uk/news/24760917.new-chief-medical-officer-appointed-buckinghamshire-nhs/​
9. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Kirby
10. Currently 2024

Above: Kate's first trip to Paxos, in 1993, when she was three years old.

It turns out that we're soon to be grandparents and our daughter, Kate, and son-in-law, Andrew, are luring us away for one last fling before nativity day in December. For one week on an island we all know well; in a proper house with a swimming pool ...

... and returning home in the middle of the night with 36 hours to go before we needed to set off to France on the first leg of our Interrail Extravaganza incorporating France, Spain and Portugal!

We've been visiting Paxos (in fact the town of Loggos to be precise) in the Ionian Islands off the West coast of mainland Greece since Kate was a 3-year-old. As an only child, she was gregarious from the moment she could interact with other people. We had not yet had a family holiday, other than trips to South Africa to show her off to relatives, and I had been remiss in not taking the time off work. I was running a small consultancy at the time and in Shan's words:
"You never want to take leave when you have a contract because of the lost income and you won't take it when you don't have a contact because you feel guilty for not looking for the next one."

As these contracts were usually of significant durations (a year, perhaps). She had a point. This is a bit of history with the last instalment being right up to date.

1993 - sociable  child

So now, in 1993, we were having that holiday. The island had been recommended to us and it proved to be just the thing. And it has remained so until the present time.

Above [top-bottom, l-r]: Mornings were on Marmari beach, just below our accommodation; afternoons incorporated a welcome siesta; early evenings were for socialising; and making new friends; and then we ate, the lovely Dina directing affairs; rounding off with other new friends before returning to our villa; meanwhile the Lakka to Gaios bus made an appearance on the narrow quayside; the next morning the derelict old soap factory put in an appearance in the background.

There was one terrifying incident in 1993 that came back to haunt us (details a bit further down) on a later visit to Paxos. We had a nailbiting trip with a seafarer named "Captain Biky" who may or may not have been a pirate for all we know. He did definitely have the gift of the gab and managed to persuade us that he was the man to ferry us from Loggos to an island called Antipaxos which was reputed to have glorious sandy[1] swimming beaches. The 16 km boat ride is mostly sheltered by Paxos apart from a notorious channel[2]​ of approximately 3 km that is open to prevailing winds at both ends, one facing Italy and the other mainland Greece. 

The channel was like a mill pond as we choofed down to the Antipaxos Marina and were offloaded for the sandy beach 2 hilly km away. The sea was sublime, though, and we soon cooled off from our walk in the clear water with its white sandy bottom.

We hadn't been there all that long, though, before the wind seemed to get up and we sought refuge in the bar adjacent to the beach. Next thing a frantic Biky came tearing down to the beach shouting to us to get back to the boat ASAP. It turned out there was a weather warning and we had to get off Antipaxos immediately. He had mitigated the 2 km walk back by bringing the boat into a closer cove and we had to clamber off the rocks to climb aboard.

By the time we reached the channel the swells had grown into terrifying waves. There was no land visible when we descended into the troughs between them. 

"Can we have lifejackets," someone, maybe Shan, demanded of our "captain". It turns out there weren't any in the "hold" and all we had for Kate were some inadequate armbands. It was debatable if anyone could have swum to shore anyway.

We eventually lurched into the lee of Paxos and it was like instant relief. Biky opened the "hold" to reveal a box of warm beers, which he handed around to those to whom some alcohol fulfilled a need. Hysterical giggling ensued until we were much closer to Loggos.

As we put-putted into the bay we spotted our landlord, Nikos, in a frantic state. As we stepped off the boat he asserted that, had he known we had been headed for Antipaxos that day he would have stopped us. He (and other seasoned Paxiots) had known the weather was about to turn foul. We were so relieved to be on terra firma we let Biky and his boat slip away from the quay. Remonstrating would've been pointless.

​2001 Sub teen

​We'd often discussed a family trip to Paxos with my parents - they had friends who owned some olive trees on the island[3] ​who had sung its praises. Cath, my sister, her two boys, William (the older) and Alex (4 months older than Kate), and husband John were up for it. As were our mum, Shirley, and dad, Woody. Only Dad went and died while plans were being finalised. We decided to carry on with the trip in his honour
​

Above [l-r]: Same place on Marmari beach 8 years on; new friends and setting about some underwater goggling; Mum and me; the child is now in her sub teens; Shan and Mum.

I have searched for photos of Cath, John, William and Alex, because I'm sure there were some, but have failed miserably. Cath, if you have any that you can lay your hands on, they'd be gratefully received and inserted into a new version.

2004 Full on teen

By this time Kate and Sophie Cave (our next-door-neighbour) were joined at the hip and we managed to persuade her parents, our friends Joanna and Tim, to join us together with Sophie's brother, Robbie, for another Paxos-bound expedition.

Our day times were spent gainfully doing nautical stuff but then we allowed ourselves to repair to one of Loggos's dockside bars to consume our share of a treasure trove of ​Bacardi Breezers as the sun went down. On this trip, supper was mostly cooked up in one or the other of our kitchens and eaten in siitu. I suspect, though, that Kate and Sophie spent some of that time slipping out to engage in a local form of passeggiata[4].

Apart from the normal stuff mentioned above, Shan and I took a bit of time out to walk across the island to peer down at the cliffs below before returning. The hilly trip amounted to 10 km.  We did the caves again shortly afterward, this time with the Caves in an organised boat with a far superior safety provenance than the vessel that had ferried us to Antipaxos 11 years earlier.

Above [top-bottom, l-r]: A view of Loggos bay from the top of the adjacent hill; we had finally managed to score digs in the yellow Manor House (with spectacular views) after slumming it in one of the servants' quarters in the adjoining white building the year before; Communism was still quite a thing in the islands back then; Kate and Joanna entering the caves on our boat trip; a view from inside one of the caves; Shan and the rest of the Caves checking out the cliffs; Kate gets a chance to drive a boat; it was hot and the geese knew where to hang out.

OK, so while Shan and I were walking back from our expedition to the other side of the island we were striding through some woods at the very top of a steep hill and, guess what? We stumbled upon the Biky boat. How the hell it got there is anyone's guess.

Above: the only certainty about the depiction of the Biky boat above was that Shan was feeling the heat - I'd like to think it was the shock of re-encountering the offending vessel but it probably had more to do with her recent ascent. 

​2008-2009 defected to Corfu

We had always foresworn the practice of going to the exact same place every year for our summer holiday. It might have been a cop out but North-East Corfu beckoned. We'd always flown through Corfu Town to get a boat to Paxos and it seemed we'd been missing out on one of the choice destinations in the Mediterranean. The cherry on top in 2008 was that a venue named the "Rou Estate" had just been opened and was offering extremely tasty rates to attract customers. Basically, an ancient village had been renovated to luxury standards in as eco-friendly a way as possible. Downside: just short of 9km by tortuously twisty road from the beach and most eating facilities. We went for it.

While staying at the Rou (Greek name Pou) we did two things: visited Agni Beach and took a drive around the rugged Corfiot mountain hinterland. We had a 2009 holiday in mind. The hinterland was spectacular but a bit forbidding for a fortnight's holiday. Agni selected itself, especially if we could secure the cottage wedged between the ocean and a damn fine restaurant.

We secured the cottage for the following year, so Agni it was and we decided to invite Sophie to keep Kate company. There is no doubt they had a good time, their gregarious nature again attracting a crew of new buddies, some of whom had pretty much free rein to a speedboat. 

Above [l-r]; first morning in the Rou Estate with breakfast gazing over the Straits of Corfu to Albania; Later in the day, across the straits from the Rou infinity pool; a bit more than rustic, the VILLAGE "TOYRIST" SHOP in a hinterland settlement; les girls on the lower terrace of our Agni pad avec moi reflected in the window; do we have to go home?

That was the end of Shan's and my experiences of the Ionians for 15 years.

​2010-2023 Kate flies alone

Kate and Sophie and Andrew made various forays to Paxos during this time but it is/was not up to me to provide any detail. Suffice to say that 2024 was to be her 8th visit to the same part of the world during her 35 years on the planet so averaging once every 4-and-a-bit years. She had to have a top-up.

​And the parents came, too!

2024 Mum-to-be

Our baby was no longer a baby, and was, instead, due to produce her own little bundle of joy. Time was running out for it to be safe to fly. Some time relaxing on a beach was just what the doctor ordered and our daughter was happy for Andrew and the two of us to make an occasional excursion while she lay quietly on the beach

​The beach was (still is) Marmari Beach, which had been the first swimming destination when we initially visited the island in 1993 and our accommodation had been a short walk through an olive grove above. We had often been the only people there or perhaps there'd be a few others scattered thinly across the pebbles and among the olives that came down almost to the water's edge. Sun, sea and shade.

​With ensuing visits Marmari had become more popular despite the kilometre from the centre of Loggos but never claustrophobically so. It still hadn't quite got to that stage this time but the middle of the day wasn't as carefree as it had been and the swimming pool back at the ranch was merciful after a morning's sojourn on the beach.

Above: there were some gorgeous classic yachts that put into Loggos harbour, enhancing the scenery on the walk to Marmari ...

It was also essential to have the mandatory bus ride into the main town of Gaios for a bit of window shopping and to procure the odd bottle of slightly more exotic Greek wine, something that has come up in the world dramatically in the last 10 years. Andrew demurred from the bus and shopping in favour of a little more peering thorough his goggles at the fish without distractions for half a day.

Evenings were different. Sophisticated cocktails had supplanted the Baccardi Breezers and the restaurants had really upped their games since we had last visited 20 years previously. Kate's toddler crush, Dina, was still around and at the helm of her family restaurant, Nassos, with altogether more sophisticated cuisine, which was interestingly more reasonably priced than most of her competitors.

One constant was the Gaios to Lakka bus, which still plied its trade along the water's edge. The one that required stomachs to be pulled in at the narrowest restaurant. It seems to have become a cherished institution ... we recognised the driver and the conductor, the very same son and mother who'd plied that route from the days of our first visit all those years ago. It was wonderful to see this tradition had persisted, albeit with a new bus towering above the overall traffic that could become a little oppressive at certain times of the day. Why on earth did more solo-motorists not use this wonderful service.

Above [top-bottom, l-r]: morning on the beach was still reasonably peaceful; Mum-to-be emerging from the clear water at Marmari; a bit later in the day and the crowds have started to invade with all kinds of craft requiring mechanical pumps, unlike our blow-up lilos; three of us made (well 2 were OK and this only refers to one of us) an unedifying repeat walk to the other side of the extremely hilly island (10km up and down there and back), something two of us had done with aplomb 20 years previously; one of the few handsome Venetian buildings in Gaios that survived the devastating 1953 Ionian earthquake; an atmospheric backlit Gaios bar at lunch time; patient customers at the fish shop; perhaps sleeping off a fish dinner in a comfy spot; lounging around at cocktail hour in Loggos; who knows?; play on words labelling the pretty special Greek wine procured in Gaios; the ballistic missile that transported us back and forth from Paxos.

Of course relaxation is a primary reason for visiting Paxos and especially Loggos. The beaches, the small harbour and the decent choice of cocktail bars and restaurants have always put it at #1 in our books. I doubt that any of the four of us, now confirmed Paxiots, would choose anywhere else on the island to pitch our metaphorical tent.

Above [top-bottom, l-r]: one can do a lot worse than rent a boat for the day - it remains a cinch to escape the small crowds that inhabit the water off the beaches; breezy afternoons mostly turn into serene evenings of peaceful contemplation of the ocean at Levrechio beach; cocktails have largely replaced Bacardi Breezers, allowing Kate many alcohol-free options at the Le Rocher Bar and the perennial Roxi, that seems to have been there for ever; part of the entertainment at Vassilis Restaurant is the nocturnal bus that squeezes past just to the left of Shan's right arm - the food is worth it, though; peaceful scene looking at the Roxi Bar and others across the water; a bit of a  panorama of the Loggos waterfront with Dina's Nassos right there in the centre - Shan, unable to be peaceful for too long, seeking out skimming stones.

Just behind the stone-skimming spot lies the "old soap factory". Some would say this has festered there since time immemorial, others would claim it had lent a tranquility to the waterfront on that edge of town.  Do not ask us to be the judges ...

Coming next

We really will be headed by train to Spain (in the main, with some rain on the plain) this time. A sojourn in Portugal adds a little spice ...

[Endnotes]:

1. ​Most/all of the beaches on Paxos itself are pebbly/stony and not very comfortable to wade out on.
2. Even salty yacht skippers of great experience are wary of this stretch of water.
3. Weirdly, due to the communal nature of the island, the trees were not in a grove of their own but scattered around Paxos. Harvesting the olives was always a matter of some honesty.
4. Italian word but has earned a general understanding of promenading along the most visible stretch of a resort but giving it a slightly more beguiling label.

Above: a flag in the ground playing tricks with the light at the Cotswold Sculpture Park ... more of the exhibition in the picture-story below.

We decided to up our game for the latter bit of 2023 and start getting out a bit ... you know the kind of thing: theatre, eating out and walking: it was "Summer" after all.

Off to London for the theatre

First off, an outing to drool over Mark Rylance in Dr Semmelweis was the main attraction. Serious stuff with a prince of theatre and film. But being in London for leisure also meant we had to walk different routes and eat imaginatively to get the best out of the day. 

​However, before we could do that, we had to get there despite Chiltern Railways (CR) and the National Union of Rail, Maritime and Transport Workers (RMT). Normally we would get the bus to Oxford and jump on the train and be in London before we knew it. We booked and paid for the journey when CR already knew that there would be no trains between Oxford and Oxford Parkway. Only they didn't tell us and we found out by accident. So it would either be two buses (with the attendant risks) or take the car. We gave ourselves a lot of time. Back in the day when I worked in London I'd have left home half an hour later.

Getting to Oxford Parkway was a breeze but working out the arcane rules for parking one's car for the day without incurring large penalty charges was less so.

Above (l-r): Every parking area in the UK seems to have a subtly different system to pay for parking; this wasn't helped by the cryptic message we were confronted with when we came to redeem our tickets

Fortunately we happened to find the most obliging staff member on duty that morning and all was resolved. The others during that day were not quite as obliging[1], so huge thanks to our lovely friend at Oxford Parkway.

As it turns out, we got to Marylebone Station with oodles of time to spare and we elected to walk the 2.2 miles taking a largely unfamiliar route via Marylebone (which is not really that close to the eponymous station).

Above (middle and right): As neither of us had had much Korean food we both opted for a delicious tasting tray that was sort of like an oriental version of pintxos. The people at the next table, who were Korean (as were 90% of the diners), cooked their own on the built-in hotplate.

Having travelled from Faringdon to Oxford Parkway, got there early, got the train to Marylebone, walked to Haymarket via the scenic route, sniffed around a Japanese supermarket for a while and eaten a sumptuous Korean Meal, we still had time to kill before our matinée at the Harold Pinter Theatre across the road. So we spent a little time walking off our lunch and happened upon the sumptuous Dover Street Market. There was a friendly, welcoming security chap on the door who encouraged us to go in and have a look, which we did. Shan loved the clothes in there but referred to them as works of art rather than wearable outfits, which was lucky because there weren't many garments in there for less than £1,000, and many were orders of magnitude above that, but we did enjoy the quirky props.

Above: Quirky shop-dressing made one feel as if this was a museum rather than a series of shops (a.k.a. designer stalls).

We spent a fair amount of time in the "market" and then scurried off to our matinée. The security guard recognised us on the way out and was equally pleasant in his exhortations to us to visit again soon.

I shan't go into Dr Semmelweis in detail. It deserves a full on critique beyond my experience, of which there are many. But it was MARK RYLANCE. We has £35 tickets in the stalls. Knowing what I know now, I would go for the £190 tickets for anything to get this man's full impact. Seen him in movies and he is riveting. Would love to see him close up on stage.

Above: this pic makes the the theatre appear smaller than it is - we had a good view and the pillars were't much of a problem but there was a short part of the play in which there was a play-within-a-play and Mr Rylance was sitting in the box at the front on the right and obscured by the circle above the stalls.

So, this guy is undoubtedly right at the forefront of his craft and, if anything, getting better. But he is subtle, so just bite the bullet and get the best seats.

​And then we walked back to Marylebone via another scenic route.

Above: A "Fiat" wine cooler amid some favourite haunts en route from Haymarket to Marylebone via another scenic meander.

Shan HOBnobbing in connected counties

Hampshire, Oxfordshire, Berkshire and the electric VW beckoned, including a big trip out to reconnect with Jann Tilbury, whom she hadn't seen for 40 years. They had been school buddies and now Jann was living darn sarf near So'ton. So off she went for a wonderfully smiley (by all accounts and photographic evidence as Jann's husband and I stood back for the reunion) solo foray into Hampshire.

Above (l-r): There's nothing like a Parson Jack Russell Terrier - in the absence of Georgie, Shan had to use Arfur as a surrogate for a quick excursion to Woolstone, Oxon; all pictorial evidence suggests that the Janshan reunion was a happy one ... hopefully to be repeated before another 40 elapsed years; on her return from Winchester, Shan had to come back down to earth with a stop off to see Georgie ... in truth this grubby pic was taken earlier in the month but who's to tamper with a babe and her granddog.

A bit of a hike with lunch

Walking has become an essential plank in keeping healthy as the years advance ... we sallied forth with Sian and Roger for a 7-mile yomp, the only rules being that propulsion was restricted to ambling purposefully through rural Oxfordshire with public transport delivering us forth and back. Coffee, lunch and a couple of pubs were options that were enthusiastically embraced. 

Above (clockwise from top left): Charney Bassett cottage gardens were a riot of colour;  jumbled signs and a defibrillator; purple suede shoes on Charney's own Basil Fawlty; old walls and new topiary; a Hitchcock moment in the middle of nowhere; a stately house in the middle of nowhere.

A meander and a yomp with the DJs

Both of these required lunch although the meander was pretty gentle and less of an excuse for victuals.

Below, meander: (top row) as one does in the Oxfordshire countryside, a landscape and a church from and in Childrey; (second row); a capped wall and a turret; Cantorist Farm for lunch.

Above: all of these items are outdoors in a substantial woodland park and range in price from a couple of hundred pounds to £31,000. Well worth a visit.

Toodle Pip ...
​
... we're off to an al fresco house warming lunch in the rain ... and great fun it was, too.

Above: Tim, Me and Neil in one of our host's fabled selfies - although why he has a spoon in his mouth is anyone's guess ... perhaps so he can hold his phone while taking the pic.

And then the rain stopped and it was warm again.

[Footnotes]:

1. The RMT was holding some sort of industrial action with the consequence that random trains were being cancelled on the Chiltern Line. Happily we were OK on the way into London but our train was cancelled without warning on the way back and we had to wait for a much later one.
2. I had to catch a bus back from Buckland for a mid-afternoon meeting while DJ was able to have a more relaxed lunch before walking home.

3 May 2021

Dear David

I contacted you with a question last week via your preferred channel, i.e. your Tory email address. I had been hoping for some clarification of your statement that the Conservatives had secured the wherewithal to resurface the town centre this year. In the absence of a reply, I managed to view the plans provided by Skanska. It appears, from what I saw, that this amounts to little more than routine maintenance? If you believe differently, I would be grateful for your views?

While we're on the subject, I am told there is likely to be some resurfacing work on Park Road, too. If this is not to be another piece of routine maintenance, it would be helpful to understand how this major artery will be brought up to LTN 1/20 standards in the process. The crossing places could certainly be brought into alignment if this is to be a proper capital project, don't you think?

Good luck on Thursday

Yours sincerely
​Mark Harrison

Mea Culpa

Mostly through ignorance and then burying our heads in the sand once we knew what we were doing was wrong.

I'll turn my focus to the motor industry for the remainder of this blog. By no means because it is the only (or even the worst) culprit but it does provide a perfect platform for grandstanding politicians. Particularly those clambering for the next smokescreen to feed to the British public.

​First, I must confess.

Look, I'm just as guilty as the next baby-boomer for making hay while the sun shone but, just because I was a petrol-head arsehole at one stage in my life doesn't give me a perpetual licence to continue a life of ad nauseam consumption. Even though, as a one-time motoring editor who extolled the virtues sub 6-second 0-60 mph acceleration times, I have helped pave the way for the lust accorded to increasingly indulgent supercars and superbikes. 

​Attempts to recant and atone have, to date, been confused. Maybe they will still continue while I sort myself out as a predominantly active traveller.

In the meantime what prompted this current rant? ​

The electric car myth

It was a Facebook ad for an electric Lexus.

Have you noticed how many of the Facebook, Twitter, et al ads for electric cars are for luxury brands: Lexus, Mercedes, Jaguar, Volvo and, of course, Tesla to name a clutch. Even Ford has taken to touting the Mustang as its electric offering. The Mustang was a '60s muscle car. Over the years it has become bloated but a major selling point for the Ford Mustang Mach-E GT remains its ability to accelerate from 0-60 mph in an extraordinary 3.5 seconds. Imagine that silently sneaking up from behind while you're on your e-bike, pedalling along and governed to  < 16 mph by (UK) law[3]. 
The entry level price for the Mustang in the UK is (currently) in the region of £40,000, BTW.
Granted, it may improve the air quality a little for the affluent neighbours of its owner.
However, it will achieve this at the expense of anyone living near a current or proposed power-generating facility. I include proposed facilities because an awful amount of energy will be expended on building even the cleanest sources of power.
The current UK government seems to include nuclear power in this. Really? Fukushima Daiichi is all too recent in global memory[4]. Why, oh why, do we need it?

Back to Bloated

Electric vehicles do have obvious advantages but surely these should be focussed on reducing energy consumption and other environmental concerns rather than on propelling even bigger and faster bloated beasts. It's no coincidence that a big drive for this excess comes from global financiers' manipulation of capital to preserve profits that were previously earned by gas guzzlers.
​
"Who says they are bloated?" you may ask.

To answer that we need a Mars bar comparison[5]. A car that has been around for a long time (in this case more than 60 years) while fulfilling much the same function[6]. 

​The Fiat 500 (a.k.a. Cinquecento) first appeared on European roads in 1957. It was cute, economical and took up so little space it could squeeze through tiny Piemontese mountain villages for the daily shopping run. If it looked like running out of fuel, there'd always be a bowser on a street corner near you. 

Back in the 70s Diana used hers to show Carmela and me around the Apennines before, exiting stage right, it made way for a new "replica".

Now we have the 2020 500e. Granted, it remains cute and the cheapest model in the range will accomplish a few shopping trips in style. But why does it have to be 22% longer, 30% wider, 18% taller and a whopping 180% heavier?

Another point to note: the entry level 2020 500e comes with a substantial government grant[7] to sneak the price the obligatory £5 under the magical £20K mark.
​
Or you could have a Porsche Taycan for £83K-£138K depending upon whether you want 616 bhp and 0-60 in 4 sec or 751 bhp and 0-60 in 2.8 sec[8]. Don't worry, the British taxpayer will subsidise you to buy one of these, too.

While we're on the Taycan, I read an article by a couple who recently bought one and decided to take it on a run from London to the South Coast. They were running short of charge to make the round trip and had the Devil's own job finding a charging station. They used the Porsche app, stopped at fuel stations and cruised through supermarket car parks as the nightmare expanded. But don't worry, the UK taxpayer will cough up to subsidise upgrading the network while households across the land will absorb the cost of cheap leccy[9] for your car.

Why does bloated matter?

Physics 101: the greater the mass, the more energy required to shift it. What is more, even a Cinquecento needs 30% more road space.

​And that extra weight wears tyres out more quickly, generating more rubber particles to kill more salmon in our rivers (and that's just the thin end of a wedge). 

We haven't even discussed battery disposal. They do not last forever. We used to dump them in Chinese rivers but they've got a bit wise to that recently.

What do we do about it?

For this blog let's focus on travel. We can return to other forms of consumption in a later episode.
Before you take your next steps, sit down and think about what you really require from your modes of travel.

Do they have to be bigger and faster? Can you get away with downsizing? How many journeys actually even require a vehicle that relies solely on manufactured energy? Can it be motor-assisted for those moments when you really need it? Consider your health and how much exercise you should be getting and whether your chosen mode of travel could double as your daily exercise? Are you really saving time by using motorised transport? Does the exhilaration of speed equate to the wind-in-the-hair experience?

Write your own use case[6].

​Maybe you can even paddle your own canoe, literally and/or metaphorically. After all, the UK is criss-crossed with canals that were designed to move people and goods about. Whatever. How many of your journeys' requirements could be satisfied by self-propelled or self-assisted travel? How much money would you save by doing this? How much fitter would you be. Weigh it up.

Active travel is a viable alternative to a huge number of journeys made by the 21st century global population. Do you really need bigger and faster? Did you know more than 70% of days in the UK are completely dry[10].

Returning to the original message: Reducing consumption​ is so much more efficient and enjoyable in so many ways than finding vastly expensive ways to manufacture more fuel.

Coming soon: Other means of reducing energy consumption and flagrant wastage.

[Endnotes]:

1. Active Travel is the mode of travel that requires some propulsion from the traveller and most commonly includes walking and cycling. Paddling/rowing would be another option.
2. Living Streets is a concept of shared use in which the more mobile give way to the less so. As an example, cars would give way to cyclists who would, in turn, give way to pedestrians. The least able people are paramount. 
3. Admittedly you can pedal hard to make it go a bit faster
4. Nuclear power is a massive subject from environment cost during construction and maintenance to spent fuel disposal via manifold other risks. All this could/would be a topic for a different article.
5. ​For those who are not familiar with the Mars bar benchmark, used for decades in marketing and economics, here is a brief explanation. The standard Mars bar retained a close to identical size and recipe enabling price comparison over decades. For our purposes I am using the Cinquecento as something that has fulfilled very similar requirements for more than 60 years 
6. Think of this in terms of how you would use an article under consideration. Hence the Use Case or Use Case Scenario that would define more detail of one's needs with some accuracy making the choice of solution easier to evaluate.
7. ​The UK government is currently providing a £3,000 grant to encourage motorists to buy electric cars. This, of course, comes directly from taxpayers' pockets as will the cost of all the other subsidies and infrastructure necessary to make this an attractive form of transport​
8. ​Porsche Taycan
9. Electricity
10. ​Completely rain free days

Go on ... have a go. Answers either on comments here or, maybe easier on the Facebook post