Update: It does seem most unlikely that I'll reach 80 but there was a time in mid-May last year that I was "given" weeks or maybe a few months to live. 

So now I'm going to pick up on the story I left off in June last year[1]. By now it should be clear that the the earliest predictions were pessimistic. In other words, there is still a bit of life in this old devil yet.

Above: Jonathan hasn't made 70 yet. In fact far from it, but it would appear that he's eyeing up another new renovation project during a recent walk along the Thames early last year! I was crossing my fingers that he wouldn't go forward with this new plan because he'd already just started his house plan and I'd somewhat rashly promised to make him some outside doors for the capacious "estate" they'd just bought in Coleshill a few miles from us in Oxfordshire.

​How much time left is the obvious question?​

A year ago I did have expectations of at least a few more years. I was in reasonable nick and enjoying being a grandfather. I needed to stay around for at least enough years to allow little Niamh to remember that she had had two grandfathers at one point and that they had been a bit of a laugh and were nice to cuddle occasionally. 

Now, who knows? I have surprised the most eminent of haematologists and, given that I'm one of very few people who has broken the mould, there really doesn't seem to be a positive (or negative) indicator that I can put my finger on. At the outset of this journey the plan was to undergo multiple injections of venetoclax and azacitidine every day for 6 days, approximately once a month for approximately 6 months.

It all started when I was diagnosed by our GP on the 4th of March 2025 with suspected diverticulitis and quickly dispatched early the next morning to the John Radcliffe (JR) (technically our local) Hospital in Oxford. There was nothing for Shelley-ann (Shan) to do but to return home to Faringdon and wait for a call, hopefully to come back and collect me. The medical staff in the JR were outstanding and very quickly confirmed our GP's diagnosis. The day wore on and I was shuffled from ward to ward and the process was increasingly leaning towards the presence of some blood abnormalities. 

Evidently I didn't help matters at home when I phoned Shan to deliver a sitrep, the last of these to blurt, allegedly: "they think my blood is fucked". Shortly after that I was moved to a high-security (in the medical sense) ward in the bowels of the JR. So deep in the bowels that there was no phone signal. Just before 7 PM on this long day I was paid a visit by a senior Consultant who sketched the outlines of his and his colleagues' concern that I had Leukaemia. He wanted to speak to Shan and told me that he would treat her sympathetically. I knew he would. He just seemed like that kind of bloke.

Being in a WiFi free zone I couldn't keep her up to date. I didn't know at the time that I was to be whisked away up to the JR's roof to occupy the only isolation room remaining vacant in the building. But isn't communication wonderful between people who love each other; somehow Shan was standing outside the ward door when staff opened it at 6am.

Above (l-r): the view from the isolation private room within the rooftop ward; a helicopter provided daily distractions landing nearby; my arm having atrophied during a period in which my weight dropped more than 3 stone; my infant granddaughter Niamh visiting me in the Great Western Hospital in Swindon after I was moved, just down the corridor from where she was born 4 months earlier..

Most people with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia (AML) get two or three choices:

1. Give up and probably die quite quickly
2. Elect to have the "standard" chemotherapy which may add a year or two to their life's expectations. After the first round, if successful, continue for a number of rounds (approximately 1 a month for six months) until the cancer is judged to be in remission. It is not an exact science.
3. A sort of in between state where some glitch with the first round, in my case osteomyelitis, interferes with the chemo. In my case I spent two-and-a-half months in hospital while they tried to eradicate the osteomyelitis from my big toe and failed. 

At this point (May last year) I and most of the medical staff thought I was a goner with weeks or maybe a few months left. I was holding out for a second round of chemo but medical advice seemed to be that there was as much chance of the treatment killing me or committing me to many, many more months in hospital. There was a suggestion that I might never leave hospital.

I went with the best advice and decided against more chemo and here I still am, welcoming in 2026 with some of my key indicators still not looking too bad.

[Endnotes]:

1. June: ​https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/all-personal-blogs/no-more-chemotherapy-chemo
2. Last key indicator test results - Blood element; my score; normal range
   1. Haemoglobin (Hb);          106;       130 - 180
   2. Red blood cells (BC);      6.4;         4.5 - 6.1
   3. neutrophils;                     4.6;         2-7
   4. platelets;                         136;        150 - 450​​

Above: traditional transport awaits better-off travellers from the Piraeus-Hydra ferry.

​By the time I got to Athens the evil junta had just been overthrown. This was probably just as well because I don't know what I'd have done had any pre-1975 member of the right wing military junta (1967-1974)[2] challenged me for my views.

1975

My visit was at the end of a year's secondment to London and my then wife, Carmela, and I were returning to South Africa. We had "open" return tickets on South African Airways that I was able to exchange for a cheaper intercontinental flight on Luxavia[3]. That embraced two stopovers, the first in Vienna and the second in Athens where we would get the budget Boeing 707 back to Johannesburg.

Actually the Vienna to Athens flight also stopped over in Thessaloniki. This is only relevant because this was the first time I'd come across a real "Ugly American". Up until then I'd found Americans in South Africa and the UK to be perfectly charming and often a lot of fun.

"I wanna Schlitz," a grating female voice echoed around the relatively small aircraft. At first I was doubly baffled because I'd never come across this item before and her voice was far from clear.
"Madame, I'm afraid the only beers we have are Fix, Mythos, Alfa and Amstel[4]​," the polite steward responded.
"I wanna Schlitz," our delightful fellow passenger whined, "they must have some in the terminal!"
"I'm afraid we're about to take off Madame, I cannot delay the flight on the off-chance they might have this beer I've never heard of in the terminal."
At this time Madame became abusive and a glance around the plane proved that every one of her fellow passengers would have cheerfully throttled her.
​Thankfully the flight time from Thessaloniki to Athens was less than an hour but, if I remember correctly, she muttered away to herself about Fix vs Amstel for most of the journey and on the bus to the terminal.

We were only in Athens for a couple of days and I can recall my initiation to Greek coffee, a trip up the Acropolis with relatives of George Thomopoulos[5], a road trip to Corinth and Isthmia and a voyage on a ferry to Hydra . I had persuaded Carmela that Hydra was a good place because Leonard Cohen lived there and we might get a sighting of him. Of course, we didn't. I doubt he even still lived there by then.

The most poignant moment was visiting the twisted wrecks of the Athens Polytechnic gates. These had been left at the entrance after approximately 40 people were killed on 17 November 1973 when a tank crashed through the barrier allowing the army of the junta to enter. A powerful symbol that I believe remains there to this day[6]. 

Above (l-r, top-bottom): Carmela with George Thomopoulos' mother and his cousin; view from Lycabettus Hill to the Acropolis, Piraeus and the Saronic Gulf beyond; sponge sellers abounded on the streets of Athens in 1975; the ferry docking in Hydra/Idra; hopeful Hydra cats; donkeys ascending the hill behind the port.

1984

​Shan's and my first trip to Greece was about the islands. We'd originally intended to fit the Hellenic Republic into our 1983 journey but it quickly became obvious that we were biting off too much. The sum of our 1983-4 expeditions proved that our decision to split the journeys proved to be the correct one.

​We flew direct from Johannesburg to Athens where we spent an ephemeral couple of days including a visit to the Parthenon.

Serifos

​But our mission was island-hopping and it wasn't long before we were on a ferry out of Piraeus bound for Serifos. We'd chosen it deliberately as a quieter option where we could acclimatise. And so it was. Our accommodation was still under construction but the room was comfortable enough until the mosquitoes descended on the first night. I recall we were up at dawn and seeking out a place that sold anti-mozzie coils. We also had a peaceful start to survey the local environment. No self-respecting Greeks were about but a completely naked British family were exploiting the tranquility to enjoy an early-morning dip. 

I think Shan had been a bit ambivalent about even swimming topless (our South Africa Calvinism coming to the fore) but a cheerful good morning to this attractive couple and their two children and it was topless all the way for a month[7].

Above (l-r, top to bottom): Shan never wore a swimming top in Greece (in those days); the last time was in Paxos in 1993 where she is joined by another bathing belle in the form of our 3-year-old daughter, Kate.
        
We stayed on Serifos for a while and got to know the ropes. We discovered taramasalata, tzatziki, houmous, non-resinated wine and sassy travellers. We'd chosen to kick off in Serifos with pre-booking and then play it by ear from there. Fortunately one of our French co-travellers was a bit more cool than sassy and we became friends after a day or two.

"You must go to Santorini," he asserted, "but don't aim for Fira, the main town, jump off the ferry at the first stop and go to Oia; it's much more authentic."
We listened and he seemed like a right on guy so we did just that (more of that when we get there in this narrative).

There were also a whole lot of Norwegians on the island with what seemed to be the express purpose of drinking cheap alchohol. After trips to Norway much later I understand why but the impact on us then, in Serifos, was that there was a bunch of amiable guys who were pissed 24x7. On one of our expeditions to different beaches on Serifos we encountered a young man lying across our path naked apart from a T-shirt. Stepping carefully, we found our way to a small cove where Shan felt comfortable in her newfound penchant for topless bathing. We spread our towels and settled down to absorb some rays. A short while later we spotted a snorkel approaching. 

It was clearly headed for our cove and Shelley-ann was definitely the attraction. The guy's nipples must've been scraping the gravel on the beach when my bride sat up crossly, arms folded over the main attractions and glared at our intruder. He was already thrashing his way out to sea and two things were clear: he was German and he had been terrified by the stare of Freya that confronted him.

Apart from topless sunbathing, eating and drinking, Serifos, like many islands, had a small town in the hills from an age when it was important to defend the population from invaders from the sea. This one was named Hora (along with many similar villages around the Greek Islands).

Above (top-bottom, l-r): Hora as seen from the harbour; Hora from above; cats are everywhere in the cyclades; I dunno, this caught my imagination in the harbour.

​Our sojourn on Serifos was over too quickly. The advice we received from seasoned travellers was leading us to Naxos, another island a little less travelled. There was a direct ferry, albeit a fair bit smaller than the behemoth that had conveyed us from Piraeus, and we set out in sunshine to cross a calm sea; a matter of a little more than 85 km via Paros.​

Naxos

About halfway between Serifos and Paros everything turned upside down. Not quite literally but the ferry was being tossed around like a cork. Shan and I were sharing a porthole and staring out at what was transpiring; one moment looking into the abyss of a trough between waves and the next staring at the sky.

Seafaring nation?

Well I don't know but there was a lot of throwing up going on. Shan and I were part of a small bunch trying to provide succour to the seafaring nation. Shan more than me. I was able to apply techniques to keep the contents of my own guts from emptying into the cabin while Shan was passing out transparent sick bags to most of the passengers. Not a pretty sight if one were looking the direction of a puker facing you. Not all of the lovely liquid made it into the bags either and much of it was sloshing under the duckboards in the toilets, threatening to break out. The captain's young son, on his summer holidays, was bravely whistling while he attempted to mop up the surging morass in the lower deck of the vessel.

We eventually reached Paros and the calm waters of the harbour restored some sanity. Shipping officials herded us off our ferry ... it was going no further in those seas, certainly not to Naxos.

Then we heard official types shouting "Naxos, Naxos," and pointing at a queue for a much bigger ferry. We complied, relieved, as were quite a few others, and embarked on the formidable ship. That will get us to Naxos, we all thought ...

Being a bit of a map geek, I knew that the ferry route from Paros town to Naxos hugged the coast of Paros island before popping across a narrow strait to Naxos town: a matter of around 30 km. We weren't long out of port before the reassuring coast of Paros to starboard started to disappear to the stern. A while later we located a member of the crew and mentioned this conundrum. It took a bit of ingenuity to convey our dilemma to someone whose English was about as good as our Greek. Shan and I were ordered to wait and eventually a group of other passengers was herded into our corner of the deck. They were in the same predicament. We were ordered to wait for further instructions.

​After a longish while we were all herded again, this time into the bridge of the huge vessel. The room was in darkness apart from a spotlight shining from the captain and on to our little "clan". The tone was threatening. Understandably, the crew all spoke Greek and all of us spoke something else, mostly English. The captain eventually revealed a working knowledge of English and I was singled out as the spokesperson for the clan. 

Turns out we were on board the good ship Naxos and we were headed to Piraeus. The captain was initially unsympathetic to our plight and seemed as if he was going to insist on charging us for the trip from Paros to Piraeus and then ditch us with the police in that port. He wanted all our passports and I only just managed to restrain myself from inquiring if Greece was still in the grips of a Junta, 10 years on, and pleaded on behalf of the clan that we'd all made mistakes independently in a difficult situation and that officials shouting "Naxos, Naxos" at a bunch of bewildered tourists on a dark and stormy night might have been a little less than helpful. I suggested that if he was accusing us of being stowaways it would be appropriate, given the severity of the charge, for embassy officials from each and every one of our nationalities to meet us at the harbour in Piraeus with the captain in attendance.

There was a lot of Greek dialogue on a crackling radio and the captain eventually showed a scintilla of sympathy for our situation. The clan was to stay together and be met in Piraeus by officials who would advise us on what would happen next.

We were herded off into the hands of officials almost 24 hours after leaving Serifos and Shan and I and some of the others who still wished to go to Naxos were shepherded off to a southbound (large) ferry for that island. We were a day late but safe and looking forward to resuming our month's expedition. We'd spent a total of 19 hours on ferries trying to get from Paros to Naxos.

Sometimes it is better not to be backpackers.

When we'd been planning our odyssey in Durban, Shan had invested in two suit bags. This was the luggage for our month's sojourn. She was immovable. I stopped cursing her perseverance when we alighted from the large ferry from Piraeus. The de rigeur for those who had accommodation to offer on an island was for the landlords and/or landladies to meet the ferries when they arrived at an island and negotiate with the mostly backpackers who disembarked in their port.

Apparently accommodation in Naxos town was at a premium.

A respectable middle-aged Greek couple made a beeline through the hordes of backpackers for Shan and me and offered us their place in the town. The rate seemed reasonable and they shouldered our bags and beckoned for us to follow. We climbed through the old town to a spacious apartment that was to be our home for a week. We thanked our hosts and asked why they'd singled us out from the crowd[10].

"No backpacks," they smiled indicating our suit bags. What a wife I had.

Above (top-bottom, l-r): wandering around Naxos' whitewashed lanes in the sunshine(x2); the road down to the beach; things got a bit hazy down at the Traverna Naxos near the harbour; a tale of four churches (x3); transport on Naxos.

The Jeep was a necessary evil for getting around on Naxos. We'd never have got down to the beach or got to those pesky churches that were perched in the most inaccessible places. Back in the day the Naxiot faithful would have had to work hard for their faith.

When we visited, Naxos' old town centre, Kastro. was noted for its crafts and tempting jewellery (no, we did not make a small purchase but that was rectified  when we reached Fira in Santorini). But the al fresco bar was perhaps the biggest temptation with its easy Greek cuisine and cheap wine ... not to mention the music that was tastefully blaring nonstop Andreas Vollenweider on a two-hour loop. We became so addicted that we purchased the then extant albums as soon as we got home and played them full blast to recreate our Greek odyssey.

Santorini

All too soon our blend of bacchanalia and bucolic relaxation had to give way to more exploration and  another island was in our sights. For many, Santorini was the pinnacle of Greek Island exploration with its volcanic history and unique geography. We were looking forward to checking it out. The legend of Atlantis played a part, coupled with the preservation of the Minoan city of Akrotiri in the 17th century BC by the lava from what is alleged to have been the world's 6th or 7th most powerful eruption in known history.

The distance from Naxos to Santorini/Thera was similar to that from Serifos to Naxos but this time without the mishaps and we arrived at the port serving Oia on a sunny afternoon.

​Above: my homemade bodging together of individual photographs in an attempt to give some idea of the extent of the caldera of which Thera (the bit you mostly can't see because I'm standing on it) is the main part. The closest island, Nea Kameni, is the crater of the 35 century old volcano.

Following the advice of our French friend that we had met on Serifos, we eyed up the herd of donkeys gathered on the wharf.  They were there to convey us up the 278 steps and bedecked in strange-looking wooden saddles. In fact there was one horse, a bunch of normal sized donkeys and one smaller, decrepit looking ass. I naturally supposed that, being the tallest, I would get the horse. 

Nothing doing, I got the ass which I mounted with some difficulty, partly to do with the wooden saddle and lack of stirrups and partly to do with my steed's reluctance to be mounted. It turned out my ride, who was reluctant to go anywhere, was assigned the lead position for the winding narrow stone path to the top. She was reluctant to set off but jerked into motion sulkily when the donkey meister urged her to do so with a stick.

Each step was met with a sigh and a pause and I started to imagine the 278 would consume a lifetime. It also was concerning for the 20 or so others behind me, all of us wanting to get to the top to find accommodation in Oia. About half way up the horse and its rider, a chap a little shorter than me, started making a move to overtake. Red rags and bulls spring to mind but I was on a donkey and she literally took off, galloping up the remaining 100-odd steps.

I got to the top first with Shan and her mount in hot pursuit. At this point I imagined my little steed would stop but, no matter what I could do, she carried on galloping down the road. Just when we thought we were goners, a slip of a young girl stepped out in front of us making donkey-stopping noises and then ultimately blowing up the beast's nose when we got close. Very, very close.

I was very, very grateful but even more so when this charming lass announced that her parents had sent her into the village to offer accommodation.

And it turned out it was the last accommodation in Oia and all the other jockeys behind us would have to seek a place to stay elsewhere.

Our digs were comfortable enough and most reasonable (as was the case on most of the islands so far). We resolved to stay for 3 nights.

Above (l-r): Oia looking towards the main town of Fira; perched on top of the 100m high cliffs with terraced lodging below; sunset from Oia across the tip of Thirasia, the second-biggest island in the caldera, 

We enjoyed spending our evenings in Oia in its clifftop restaurants overlooking the caldera. It was there we discovered a strange phenomenon and my ability to detect it. Also Shan's irritation over my lack of attention to her and my conversation while I exercised my detection skills.

Basically (and seemingly coincidentally) the town was overrun by tourists from a small neck of the woods in South Africa known as "the last outpost of the British Empire". Not something to be particularly proud of in 2025 but at least quaint in that I was able to recognise those from my alma mater by their diction, pronunciation and mannerisms. Some were irritated that I could to do this and others delighted. And, no, there was no old boys' reunion going on, merely coincidence.

Above (l-r): We spent the day wandering around Fira which seemed to be a bigger and more commercial version of Oia; the live bouzouki was tempting but not as much as sitting on a terrace in Oia with simple food and watching the sunset; a wine estate awaited for our scooter tour of the island[12].

We visited Fira, Thera's main town, and explored pretty comprehensively including the manifold jewellery shops. One of these was slightly less bling than the others and the wares were rather tasteful. We bought Shan a gold and sea pearl bracelet but didn't have enough money for the asking price. The shop owner saw how much she cherished it and asked where we were staying. Our address in Oia didn't phase him.

"I can see how much you like the bracelet," he said, "bring me the money tomorrow."

Such was the way in Greece in those days (I'm not saying that's not longer true) and we were back at opening time the following day to fulfil our side of the bargain.
​
Having explored the main town of Fira, accessed by a death-defying bus from Oia in which the bit of the vehicle we were seated in seemed to be suspended in mid air on the bends of the steep mountainside, we resolved to rent a Vespa to explore the island more fully on our second full day.

This was probably the most underpowered two-wheeler I'd come across as a bike owner and tester of beasts up to and including a Kawasaki 1200. My humiliation was complete when we fell over on a hairpin bend. It occurred to neither of us to stick a foot out (it should've been me) and it was a dusty duo that righted the scooter and proceeded to our first destination, the Akrotiri lighthouse set atop a small "mountain" on the cliffs overlooking the sea in just about all directions.

Unfortunately our little Vespa wasn't capable of getting up the hill with both of us bestriding it so I had to coax it to the top while Shan had a relaxing stroll to the top. The views were worth it and I had to persuade my wife that we could both descend on our little 50cc buzzbox. We'd visited the furthest attraction first and our next stop was the Red Beach. It had red cliffs a la parts of South Wales but not too much else. We had a look and proceeded to Akrotiri.

​No matter how one looks at it, Akrotiiri is astonishing[10]. What have we been doing these past 36 centuries? I had a similar feeling more recently when visiting Turkey in 2006 and witnessing the sophistication of Ephesus and observing the housing and civil infrastructure there. ​

Above (l-r): c'est moi standing in the doorway of a 3,500 year-old doorway; parts of the town of Akrotiri that had been excavated by 1984; the lava soil on Santorini is very fertile and produced wine even then[11]..

​What does it say about a doorway that could easily accommodate a 6-footer 3,500 years ago when 400 year old houses in England required a pronounced stoop to avoid a sore head? Many of the excavated house sported  more than on storey, and the ancient town had been equipped with water born sewerage those 35 centuries..

Our bones were tired and sore by the time we returned our Vespa and all we wanted was a shower and a casual restaurant overlooking the caldera. We rubbed shoulders with a few of the Natal Midlands crew enjoying the same peaceful end to a day.

Before we left we had to visit the actual crater i.e. the island of Nea Kameni. There were boat tours that allowed us a decent amount of time to explore while warning of the dangers of heat exhaustion and sunburn. We were wowed by the volcanic ruins and happily didn't become more burned or exhausted.

Above (l-r): looking across the island with its eerie evidence of various eruptions from the cataclysmic 16th century BC eruption through various smaller incidents over the intervening 3,500 years and with modern Fira in the background; the big boy ... the main crater itself (evidently I can be seen on the far side as far away as possible to avoid messing up Shan's photo.

Antiparos/Paros

I cannot remember why we elected to spend the next 6 nights (including my 33rd birthday) on Antiparos. Perhaps it was a recommendation from our Serifos friends? Good value? After three ferries, Fira-Naxos-Paros-Antiparos spread over an entire dawn to dusk day we arrived at our accommodation which really was the worst we had.  So much so that we bailed out and found new digs in a pension nearby. Our French friends in Serifos hadn't quite hit the spot this time.

Above (l-r): cheapest food in town at the taverna in the square; also the auditorium for town scandal; our second accommodation; opposite a night club.

We arrived in Antiparos naïvely believing we could find a cashpoint and withdraw sufficient funds for much needed food and wine - πόσο αφελείς ήμασταν! We were down to three 100 Drachma notes (a little less than a Pound in those days) if we kept back enough for the ferry to Paros the next day to get some cash.. We managed to get a litre of retsina and a couple of pastries for that and found a table for some crowd watching.

All was quiet for an hour or so and then it all kicked off in the opposite corner of the square. Much shouting, arm waving and threatening behaviour. Shan being Shan had to find out what was going on and shouldered her way to a good vantage point while I held on to the table.

"There has been a cuckolding incident between a couple just about to get married," my wife reported back, "there are two family factions each blaming each other and it looks as if it will turn ugly."

The ruckus seemed to intensify and the shouting became louder as the mob left the square. Most of us remaining seemed to be tourists and we looked at each other quizzically. We never found out the gruesome details and eventually headed back to our new pension for the night.

​The next day we caught a boat to Paros and went in search of a cashpoint. I remember it not being easy and compensating ourselves with an ice cream once we'd aquired the readies. Then we had to get back to Antiparos in a gale whistling down between the two islands. It was just one kilometre but terrifying. Our second experience of Greeks not being the seafaring nation we'd imagined them to be. The wind persisted for a couple of days until we had to return to Paros to once again catch a huge ferry back to Piraeus; this time intentionally so we could fulfil a dream of visiting Spetses.

The day in Paros included a 20 minute each way bus ride to Naoussa. Perhaps we'd have been better off missing out our excursion to Antiparos and just stayed on the main island, even if it was more expensive.

​A few vignettes of Paros below ...

Above (top-bottom, l-r): repurposed vehicles (x2) (the bus was probably in action not long before); dried fish ready to eat?; every harbour has its nets out drying; urban whitewash (x4); a bar waiting for more patrons; classic sunset as per most evenings.

Spetses

Spetses was always going to be a highlight of our trip. The initial interest was kindled by our love of John Fowles and The Magus, just as we'd been stimulated the year before to visit the Lyme Regis Cobb of The French Lieutenant's Woman fame (see https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/all-personal-blogs/time-to-pay-up).
​
We headed off to "our" island on an altogether faster means of transport i.e. a Flying Dolphin hydrofoil which was a welcome end to seemingly eternal trips from Paros via Piraeus. We also found pleasant accommodation for ourselves but never found a place on Spetses (a.k.a. Phraxis) that convinced us it had an appropriate atmosphere for Conchis and Lily's love nest. 

Above (top-bottom, l-r): we got to Spetses on the hydrofoil; some random grub; which we ate at the quayside gazing with envy at a splendid ketch.

​We did enjoy the beguiling facet of Spetses and Dapia, its main town, that there was almost no motorised traffic. This was by design and made mooching around all the more peaceful and to be positively enjoyed.

We had a light and airy apartment that shared a balcony and a seemingly paper-thin wall with the one adjacent to ours. Our neighbours on the other side of the wall were particularly vigorous in the exercises they performed just before retiring. It started with the sounds of furniture squeaking rhythmically, built to a crescendo with their headboard banging frantically on our shared wall and then ended in groaning and heavy breathing that could easily had been occurring in our own space. We had been hoping to catch a glimpse of these young acrobats on the shared balcony but they never strayed on to it while we were there.

Above (l-r): We found Fowles' school gates; and the school; ​

Returning to our "obsession" with John Fowles and The Magus, we did find the school at which Fowles taught. We also followed every Magus lover's fantasy and sought a likely house from the island's gossip that we determined to visit ... actually we didn't get that close but we did get a caique from the port in Dapia ​to Agia Paraskevi and peered around a bit for Conchis' house. We thought we spotted it but it seemed a bit of an anticlimax. What were we expecting? We had been addicted to a work of fiction. After all, we had searched for Camelot the year before!

Above (l-r): every Greek island has an "everything" shop; another of the pretty boats that made Spetses so beguiling; young fisherwomen enjoying the sunshine.

Actually, our first expedition occurred the day before the caique trip. We hired a bicycle each with rear carriers complete with bags for small luggage and set off to circumnavigate the island. This was to be a trip of around 25 km and we were young and fit. It was a hot day so everything other than our actual flimsy clothes went into the bags. Our first stop was at a viewpoint where I must've rooted around in the bag for my camera, taken a picture and resumed our quest for a beach breakfast that beckoned some way further on. 

We found the beach easily enough after an hour or so's pedalling, ordered a sumptuous Greek breakfast and sat down to eat it. I don't know what made me look in my bike bag for my wallet before I'd begun but I did. And it was not there. Everything was in it from my passport to our tickets for the hydrofoil back to Piraeus and all the money we had left for our holiday.

I immediately jumped on my bike and set about searching the road back to where we had stopped. I left Shan eating her breakfast but it turned out she'd lost her appetite and went to explain to the restaurant proprietor what had happened. He was typically Greek in his understanding and insisted that we could return to pay him the next day. She set off in hot pursuit.

In the mean time I was combing every inch of the road back to the viewpoint, where I'd last seen my wallet. She caught me near the viewpoint and we searched the remaining path together ... nothing.

Disconsolate, we made our way back to Dapia and found the police station to report my loss. Nothing. in fact the police were a little contemptuous. I was completely dehydrated and we found a cafe to buy several litres of lemon juice. We both needed it. Me the most. How we paid I cannot remember but it may have been one of those wonderful pieces of Greek hospitality coming to the fore yet again.

Above (top-bottom, l-r): some sort of church - Greek Orthodox?; all over Europe but particularly Greece, the place to buy almost anything consumable; cars all but banned on Spetses; the ubiquitous cat; sharp fellow traveller; Είμαι εγώ; light & shade - Shan does justice to a colourful island; last memories of Spetses..

But luck and wonderful citizenship was on our side gain. We eventually made our way back to our pension after returning our bikes to find a smartly dressed young police officer in uniform talking to the owners at the reception desk. Our hosts spotted us and were immediately energised:

"Mr and Mrs Harrison," they exclaimed, "this gentleman (indicating the policeman) has your wallet."

The sigh of relief was palpable. The policemen was ever so slightly superior and chided us about looking after our things. A Dutch couple had found my wallet and handed it in. Nothing was missing, We immediately asked where we could find them and thank them appropriately.

"They were over here from the mainland for the day and have already gone back," He and his colleagues had had the prescience to ask for details and provided us with their names and temporary address on the ​Peloponnesus. We would have liked to buy them a thank-you meal.

​On our way home via Hydra and Athens.

We had just a brief stop in Hydra (enough to reflect that not much had changed since Leonard Cohen's residence there) on our Flying Dolphin return journey. We arrived in Piraeus at around 2:30 PM with 7-ish hours to kill before our rendezvous with Athens airport and our return flight to Johannesburg. Perhaps the fashions had changed a little in the intervening 9 years since I'd visited previously but much of it remained familiar.

We did have a fabulous last laugh with a German couple with whom we shared a meal after a last canter around the old city.

Above: a typical menu, this one I suspect from Athens, illustrating how inexpensive so many of the aspects of Greek travel were in 1984. The exchange rate fluctuated between 135-150 Drachma to the pound in that year. The Pound was worth an average of R1.44 South African Rand for the year, although the Rand took a pounding in the second half of 1984 plummeting to R2.30 for £1 by the end of year. 

Hearty meals could be had for £1-2!

​We met the aforementioned new German friends when the Athens skies opened and we had to run for cover. Under an awning. They were at the next table and the weather was a catalyst to talk and then share hilarious anecdotes about our respective Greek travels. We also revelled in the cheap Greek beer and wine and had to be vigilant of the time to avoid missing our flights.
​
1987

We'd been staying with Phil and Ali Duff since immigrating to the UK on the 7th of April and were finally closing in on a house of our own in Faringdon. We decided to give them a little breathing space and found a package to the Sporades that could just about be accommodated by our budget with direct flights from the UK to Skiathos.
​
​Skiathos

The first picture below shows Shan being rather cross. Basically, I was demonstrating how to skim pebbles across the smooth sea and one of them stuck to my finger and launched itself after I'd intended it to be released and hit my beloved on the forehead. I have to say the lack of blood or bruising suggests that it was a minor incident but I had to make amends. In the meantime a couple in the background are doing a bit of post-wedding snogging and he's ditched his clothes in anticipation while she seems rather more reluctant.

Above (l-r); Shan's cross face; making friends with the local tavernistas at one of our epic nights out.

The Sporades group of islands in those days were relatively undiscovered but Skiathos had a rather terrifying airport.(still does if Google Maps are to be believed) that starts and ends in the sea. We were able to visit other islands from there by boat. We chose to go to Skopelos, which was unspoiled and magnificently rugged. Round about mid-afternoon on a hot day clouds formed almost instantaneously and it started to rain.

We were half way up the steep hill dropping down into Skopelos town when the rain became a deluge. Fortunately we were able to shelter in a small passage as the water came down the hill in a torrent. In minutes it was raging over the roofs of the cars parked in the street leading down the hill and we were grateful for our little refuge.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started the downpour stopped and the sun came.out and we were able to continue our descent to the waterfront promenade, which was knee deep in water.

Above: Late summer 1987 and we look more like Saffers than Poms ...

Must've been all that working in the Duff garden​ topped up by Skopelan sunshine (in between the rain).

Our penultimate day was spent back on Skiathos. While walking back from the beach at lunchtime, we encountered some elderly Greek locals singing in a taverna in one of the small lanes They were gathered around an acoustic guitar wielded by one of their group. They were welcoming and pretty good singers so we grabbed some vino and settled in. A passing group of Norwegians stopped to listen and were soon also enjoying their drinks. Our Greek musicians played for quite a while before announcing that they were required for an afternoon shift at work. We joined forces with our new found Scandi friends and much later ended up in a nightclub still wearing our shorts and teeshirts from the beach,

I think that it was at sunrise the next morning that we said our "adjøs" and returned our room for a quick nap and a shower before rushing to get our early flight back to the UK. You might recall that our previous Greek trip finished in a similar manner!


1993

​Sometime after 1987 three colleagues and I decided to form an IT company and immediately landed a long-running contract with a department in the UK government. We worked our fingers to the bone to get it up and running and holidays fell by the wayside. Shan eventually raised her own finger. We hadn't had a holiday in years and our baby, Kate, was almost four. Shan got some catalogues in and we settled on a couple of weeks on Paxos just South of Corfu. It seemed less commercialised than Corfu itself and we signed up for a villa, owned by Nikos, in a huge olive grove with a bit of a trek into the little harbour town of Loggos (now Longos). A little closer than Loggos was Marmari Beach which became a favourite of ours for 32 years.

Above (top-bottom, l-r): Kate and me, floating free at Marmari Beach; Shan and Kate conferring; one of many trips to our favourite Loggos restaurant (for lunch this time?); the long trek up to our villa; the sea in the afternoons was always rough (view from our villa); good time for an afternoon kip; back down to town after sunset; the bus squeezes along the front on its 12 km tortuous journey from Lakka to Gaios; the wonderful Dina who looked after us at our favourite restaurant that year; Kate made some Italian friends on the steps of the church on the first night; and then some Ozzie friends a few days later; communing in an olive grove on the water's edge.

We travelled on the bus into the island's Mecca, Gaios, once or twice and also took a boat to the smaller island of Antipaxos just to the South. We were sussing out the boats and were soon waylaid by Captain Biki who enticed us on to his brig for the journey. It was a sunny day and the sea was calm all the way to our destination. The main attraction was Paralia Vrika, a large cove with a gentle white sand slope into the turquoise sea. Perfect for Kate to swim.

We'd just finished our swim when the wind started to get up and we began to search for somewhere to shelter. The next thing Captain Biki came charging on to the beach rounding up all his passengers and started herding us with some urgency to the boat which was in a small inlet beyond the headland defining the swimming bay. It wasn't that far but the sand was soft and we had to jump on to the boat from some rocks once we got there. Biki was agitated.

He steered the boat out into the Ionian and towards the notorious 2km channel between Antipaxos and Paxos. As we emerged from the lee of the former and plunged into peaks and troughs ahead, it became clear that this was going to be an extremely scary mile and a half across the water. Biki, himself, was not particularly reassuring. In fact his suntan had paled dramatically. He dug around for lifejackets and, there were none. We had some pretty ineffectual armbands for Kate but no-one was confident they'd help much. Shan wrapped her in a towel to keep her from the sudden cold. But there was nothing for Shan and me. We had both been strong swimmers at one point in our lives but hadn't really kept it up to the extent that we could feel confident swimming a kilometre in a raging sea.

​Looking at Biki didn't boost our confidence. The boat really wasn't achieving much more than 4-5 knots and that meant our crossing would take at least a quarter of an hour of nail-biting. It felt like an hour.

The relief when we reached the lee of Paxos was palpable. It was as if winter had returned to summer. Biki's colour returned and he dug into a compartment in the bottom of the boat for refreshments. For those of us who could drink beer, it was a riot of relief and verbal diarrhoea. Fortunately Kate was blissfully unaware but Shan just looked resigned to the fact we still had another, albeit sheltered, 7km to go before we could step off on to dry land.

As we put into Loggos, a very worried Nikos was waiting for us. His relief was palpable. He had been worried as soon as he had seen us queuing up to board Captain Biki's boat and had been torn as to whether he should advise us not to go. He hadn't trusted the boat and he'd read the weather forecasts.

We never saw Captain Biki's boat in the harbour again. Not in that year nor during a subsequent visit in 2001. We didn't think much about it until a later visit in 2004 ...

Years later my great friend and seasoned old salt, Robbie Burns, nodded as to the notoriety of the channel between Paxos and Antipaxos, which had been a scary experience for people in much more competent boats than Biki's.

Above: Whatever happened to Captain Biky? Shan rediscovers the boat in July 2004 while walking in a remote olive grove.

We had loved our little villa up through the olive grove and seated peacefully on top of the hill but, nocturnal rutting hedgehogs notwithstanding, we decided that somewhere a bit closer to the town would be preferable if we ever came to Paxos again ...

​And return we did, prompted by the death of our dad, Woody, in 2001.

Above: for a while our aspiration when staying on Paxos - the Manor House in Loggos and associated apartments - with stupendous views across the Ionian Sea to mainland Greece; evening in Loggos bay. ​ 
2001
​
In 2001 Dad (pictured below, seated on the left) died from multiple ailments, including the prostate cancer that had afflicted us both. My sister Cath and I decided to take our Mum to Paxos a little later in the year. It was a place that Dad had always wanted to visit but never had, despite exhortations from a close friend to share in the adoption of some olive trees on the island[8]. He died on the 1st of March, which was the "same" day our brother, Paul, had died in 1990, a leap year [9].

Above: Paul's 1990 funeral at Hilton College - seated - Dad, Mum, Paul's fiancée, Adele and me - standing - four members  of Adele's family, my sister, Cath, holding her son William, my nephew, Karl, and his mother, my sister, Sue;

Shan, Kate and I bagged one of the Manor House apartments in Loggos and Cath, John, William and Alex occupied the ground floor of the Manor House itself. The apartment was well-situated but that was about it. It's probably useful at this stage to rename Loggos "Longos" because that has happened between our early visits to the island and current days.

Above (top-bottom, l-r): at  In Paxos Shan and Kate preparing for the 2001 sunshine, topless no longer (and never again), battleships in the fresh Marmari morning sunshine; Kate looking for shells and pebbles with new-found friends; Mum and me at dinner; Shan and Mum; Kate focussing on her Granny; one of the few Venetian buildings that survived the 1953 Ionian earthquake; Kate in an alleyway that also survived; Kate probably won't thank me for this typical pre-teen caricature.

Our second trip to Paxos was essentially a tribute to Dad who had talked about going there but never made it. We renewed our acquaintance with this lovely island after an 8-year break doing other things elsewhere in the world. I believe Cath et famille were there for the first time and the Manor House garden was utilised by the younger set while we spent much of our time on the verandah drinking beer and gazing out to sea with Mum.

​2004

This time we managed to persuade the Caves (Joanna, Tim, Sophie and Robbie), our great friends and next-door-neighbours to accompany us to Paxos. They rented a house for themselves above Longos and we hit out together on expeditions and every evening for libations and food.

We finally made it to our dream accommodation in the Manor House in Longos and the view (left) was much as it had been in our apartment 3 years previously but there the similarities ended. We had the upper floor which was extremely spacious with a spare room for Kate to share with Sophie when she needed it over our two-week sojourn.

​Shan and I embarked on the occasional serious walk while the others preferred a gentler time, probably on Marmari Beach, joining together in the evening at at the Roxy Bar in the harbour.

​As we were there for two weeks we had several expeditions involving boats. Our main expedition together was to the far side of the island in a larger, skippered boat to visit the caves.

A picture of the Caves at the caves will show up a little further down but before we go there, we did a lazy-ish familiarisation of the (mainland-Facing) Longos side of the island starting with a 2.5 mile voyage to Lakka at the Northern tip of Paxos. The water in the bay there was so clear there it seemed as if it was half its depth and some of us had a dip and others admired the billionaires' yachts before reversing our journey and heading back past Longos for the 6 mile voyage via Gaios to Mongonissi Beach, where we had another swim in the sheltered azure sea.

The trip back took us back to Gaios where we stopped for a bit before commencing our return trip to Longos. A little shopping may have taken place, accompanied by ice cream. Heading off from Gaios down the narrow-ish channel between Paxos and the tiny island of Panagia we encountered a veritable monster of a Sea Cat motoring towards us at quite a rate, headed for the main port on the island. 

Rather childishly, if not cruelly, Tim and I discussed volubly whether we should alter our course to our starboard to avoid the behemoth approaching us at some speed or whether we could nip through between its ample thighs (hulls). There was plenty of room for the latter but it almost certainly would have got us into a lot of trouble.

Joanna was not amused and so should she have been. I still feel bad about it to this day and my only excuse was that Tim was complicit. What is more, while I'm writing about this beast in late 2025, I can find no evidence of such a vessel existing in those waters, let alone approaching Paxos.

Nonetheless, it happened and I have witnesses. Sorry Joanna.

Above (l-r, Top-bottom): First three are of  Shan and me admiring the architecture in the early stages of our hike; then there's me half way across the island which has two coastal ridges with a deep and steep valley in between; from our vantage points we were able to snap the two gorgeous but different bays - the first being Longos and the second Lakka (note the clear water that makes the boats appear as if they're suspended); some bigger boats that couldn't make it into the Lakka harbour; there was still a Communist Party HQ on the island, taking me back to the day when I first encountered the film Z and visited Athens in 1975; 5 pictures of fairly remote buildings in Paxos' central valley; it was a hot day on our boat trip along the North-East Coast and these birds had made a sensible decision; Kate got to drive the boat after we'd passed the catamaran to our port side.

The pictures are all a bit of a jumble above because they cover the two expeditions, i.e. the walk Shan and I did across the island and our first boat trip as a complete group. Once we had got over the trauma of the gargantuan Catamaran ship, we relaxed a tad and pulled into a wide bay at Kipiadi Beach, where I think I'm correct in saying that Robbie and Sophie got their first taste of sea "free" swimming.

​Bacardi Breezers were the order of the day after we returned our rented boat to its rightful owner.and retired to the Roxi Bar

Above (l-r, Top-bottom): 5 pictures from our trip to the caves; one from a walk on the hill overlooking Longos bay, showing the ruins of the old soap factory.

​The soap factory had been a ruin since we'd first visited Paxos in 1993 and we always wondered why that prime piece of water's edge had been left to "rot". And then we visited in 2024 ... so take a peek lower down in this blog ...
​
2007

​This was a "girls'" expedition for a week to Kefalonia for Shan, our friend Debbie Beasant and Kate and her friend, the aforementioned Sophie Cave. I wasn't there so I'll leave it to them to blog it if they wish to. Kate and Sophie have been to Greece on many expeditions that didn't involve parents and I have no idea what they got up do. Sophie had been introduced to Paxos in 2004 (earlier in this blog)

2008

Above (l-r, Top-bottom): the main Rou Eastate infinity pool in the early evening with Albania 3.6 miles (AtCF) away; Kate and Shan relaxing with a similar backdrop; our own infinity pool during the first week; plus a hot tub; I get to use the Laurus "plunge" pool in the second week.

This year was a bit of a pot pourri starting off with a long weekend in Lombardy feasting on the sights of Bergamo's Citta Alta and concluding with Christmas with Cath (my sister) in Normandie. For some reason or the other, perhaps because Graham Dyson persuaded me, I also ended up at an old boys' dinner in the Natal Midlands in South Africa.

We had mulled over going to Greece but were looking for something a little different from Paxos and the holiday seemed to be drifting away. And then Shan happened upon a chance in a lifetime.

She had read that a British architect had been busily resurrecting  one of those "forgotten" mountain villages and renovating it to a high level of luxury and environmental standards.

​It was called the Rou Estate and was situated in the hills above the sought after coast of North-Eastern Corfu. Getting there in those days was a bit of a mission and it seems much the same in 2025 if Google Maps are reasonably up to date.

Once you get there it is a revelation and, apart from the lack of a restaurant in those days, it was a temptation just to hunker down. The estate pool was magnificent and the private one we had for the first week not much less so. We had been spoiled with the 6-bed Thyme accommodation and were a little disappointed when we had to move in the second week. In fairness, the three of us had been lucky to get the upgrade and when moved to a smaller place we still had a stonking view.

But we did want to spend some time exploring so we accepted the remoteness of Rou and took ourselves to what the island had to offer: beaches, boating, bathing, (eating and drinking) and exploring the hinterland.

Our attraction to Agni beach was further piqued  when, probably because of its compact size, Kate was approached by brother and sister in the taverna who asked her to join up with them which resulted in her spending much of the reminder of the holiday in their company. Just the ticket when travelling as a lone teenager with fuddy-duddy parents.

Above (l-r): for our first night's dinner we crept down the hill a few miles to a pleasant rustic taverna, next evening and Shan and Kate are enjoying the bayside delights of  Agios Stefanos on an idyllic sheltered bay; Mr Smuggy McSmugface; Agios Stefanos waterfront at night.

​After a few forays to a number of gorgeous beaches and some languishing around the pool at the Rou Eastate we decided it was time to gird our loins and make some forays into the mountainous hinterland. 

Our first visit was to Old Peritheia, which was reputed to be the oldest mountain village on Corfu. There was certainly a collection of places of worship in various stages of repair, some of them still extant.

Left: Kate standing under the bell tower of Agios Jokobus der Perser. 

Above (l-r): ​the "toyrist" shop ... play on words or ...;Shan and Kate in one of the many doorways that went nowhere; welcome lunch.

It really was a different world up there in the mountains: practically zero traffic and old villages; we were in heaven. The road back to the coast passes a track up to Mount Pantokrator, the tallest mountain on Corfu and reputed to have stupendous views and a getting on for 400-year-old church[13]. I attempted the first bit of the track which was in a horrendous state and there was NO-ONE about. We didn't want to get stuck up there lateish in the afternoon.

Beaches and beach restaurants at Kerasia and Kalami satisfied our penchant for swimming and eating but it was only when we crept down the the precipitous road to Agni that we found our nirvana. A relatively small settlement but with everything we could need. We commuted down there daily from Rou for the last stretch of our holiday and booked the prime-position house right on the beach for the following year.

Above (l-r, Top-bottom): at one end of the cove, Taverna Agni; Shan looking smug at Taverna Agni with the village's compact beach stretching out to the other end and Taverna Nikolas; Taverna Nikolas with our two-bedroomed cottage physically connected (note Shan's towel bagging pole position on the beach.

Agni, it would be difficult to beat it. A freshwater swimming pool, perhaps? But that would have chlorine. A bigger kitchen/living area? Who needs that with two restaurants to choose from and a verandah actually right on the beach where the Taverna next door was happy to look after our requirements for drinks and snacks..

We had decided early on, when booking the cottage, to invite Sophie from next door (see 2004 above)  to accompany us as a friend and companion for Kate. That had been a great decision, given the sociability of the cove, and the two young women soon had a côterie of new friends.

Entertainment was provided by passers-by, on the beach and in the water. The latter including swimmers, small boats, medium-sized boats and colossal Ships further out to sea negotiating the Straits of Corfu.

Above (l-r): boats of all shapes and sizes in the bay and in the straits; hanging around at night.

We did occasionally venture out from our beachfront idyll. We undertook another foray to the mountains in the  hinterland; to Old Peritheia; and another day rented a boat to traverse the 3x2 (crow flies) miles from Agni to Agios Stefanos and back. There was also quite a lot of walking involved with a decent cliff path connecting Agni to Kalami via the old Durrell homestead.

It was hard to imagine, even in 2009, that Corfu had only turned up on much of the rest of the World's map in My Family and Other Animals, first published in 1956 and that the Durrell Family would have lived there around 90 years ago, before WW2. 

Of course the place would have gained a lot more fame following the eponymous BBC television series released in  1987 and, even when we first started going to Corfu in 1993 when much of it, together with its satellite, Paxos, were pretty rustic (and many would venture, "unspoiled").
Above: part of the view from our
small villa in Agni.

Above (l-r, Top-bottom): another view from our villa in the early evening; another view of Agios Jokobus der Perser, this time with Sophie; were they trying to tell us something about the vehicles needed for the Corfu hinterland?; Shan with Taverna owner, Nikolas; me with Nikolas' second in charge; Sophie and Kate with the next generation of taverna execs.

Having the Taverna Nikolas next door didn't just mean food and drink on tap but also typical Greek entertainment. In fact, Agni was the smallest "town" we went to in Greece and seemed to offer the most engaging nightlife. And we were accorded the premium hospitality being next-door-neighbours. 

I'm not sure what day the 13th of August was in that year but Nikolas certainly knew how to throw a party on that night and it would have been rude for us not to attend. And what a party it was, too. Sumptuous food (much of it local fish) and dancing into the small hours.

We did try to venture elsewhere on the island, apart from Old Peritheia and our boat trip to the resorts just to the North of Agni but didn't find anything beyond Agios Stefanos that might entice us further. A trip to the South also seemed to result quite quickly into the types of hotels that we found less enticing.

Agni in 2009, it seemed, was our Nirvana so we ended up staying put with the occasional walk out along the coast. Shan and I stumbled upon a stalled development close to Agni that may or may not have been completed in the intervening 15 years or so. Answers on a postcard if anyone knows all these years later.

Above (l-r, Top-bottom): Shan liked to spend the early evenings in repose on our veranda (x2); Snacks on our verandah, courtesy of Nikolas; Sophie and Kate (being typically Bolshie) at breakfast; Shan pursues her love of binoculars; a party at the Taverna; figureheads on our boat, rented for trips up the coast; dog rescues shoe; Nissaki Beach; stalled development just outside Agni (x3) - wonder what happened to it?; lesson in why not to try and turn one's car around on a gravel beach at night - last picture of 3 calling for help but it was still there in the morning; last sunset in Agni.

It took 15 years for us to return to Greece and its islands, mostly because there was a lot of the rest of the world to see and we jumped off the familiar hydrofoil in Gaios, Paxos with alacrity for the 4th time. Much was familiar and lots was new ...

​2024

Find out about  this expedition in a blog of its own by having a look at
https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/random-blogs-to-be-consolidated/just-one-last-swerve-before-embarking-on-northern-spain 
There are many overlaps between the two blogs in my attempt to provide a comprehensive Greek love affair but I really wanted to highlight the new plans for the Northern end of Longos Bay in this "all encompassing" "tome", i.e. that the substantial corner of Longos bay is finally being redeveloped from being a sprawling set of ruins of a soap factory (the odd pic earlier in this blog) to serious activity to turn it into a luxury resort. While Longos had been quieter and quainter than the other two towns, the scruffy site had been somewhat incongruous. Some might say a bit of an eyesore.

One just hopes that it won't cause the whole town to lose its quaint charm by introducing a level of incongruous sophistication. The company developing it seems to be the one that nudged Rou into an expensive luxury establishment but that estate is in the middle of the hills whereas this one could overwhelm Longos if not managed carefully. 

Above (l-r, top-bottom): at least the chimney hasn't changed; consruction full speed ahead on a new luxury complex (x2); another thing (in Gaios) that doesn't change; others do - Kate about to produce a new generation; Marmari beach has become overrun, even in September!

2026

Not going to happen now with the old Leukaemia (AML). Apart from the limited remaining lifetime (already 4 months longer than medicals' best guess in May 2025) travel insurance makes it prohibitive. I got a quote recently from my longtime insurer, Staysure, for a week in France. More than £600 for a week in France when my annual cover before the AML onslaught had been less that a quarter of that! It's probably nonsensical to extrapolate the weeks's quote to a year's cover (which was no longer even on offer) would be something in excess of £32,000. C'est la Vie.

Also, it was much nicer travelling to the Greek Islands when very few of them had its own airport and the ferry journeys made it all seem more of an adventure and far fewer people felt the inclination to just drop into an island for a week. Even Paxos required (and probably still does apart from the occasional gazillionaire's helicopter) the last leg of the journey from Corfu in a boat, albeit a "Flying Dolphin".

It seems hard to believe but on one of our transfers from Corfu Town to Gaios an enthusiastic Brit and more than competent skier managed to persuade the Dolphin captain to allow him to ski behind the "boat" for the journey. A distance of some 34 miles as the crow flies! That's 34 mph (55 kph) for an hour!!!

The END

​​Any further visits involving yours truly are most unlikely given the state of my health. Those other companions on this journey will probably not be able to resist another flirtation at some stage or another.

[Endnotes]:

1. Courtesy of Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Z_(1969_film).
2. ​Courtesy of Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_junta.
3. https://www.timetableimages.com/ttimages/luxavia.htm has a brief summary of the South African ruse to overfly Africa during the Apartheid years.
4. ​Technically Amstel was Dutch and brewed in Amsterdam (hence the name) but was also brewed under licence in Athens.
5. ​George is a great friend from Durban days, and then in London and even briefly in Liverpool. He persuaded us to visit Athens and meet up with his Mum.
6. Courtesy of Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Athens_Polytechnic_uprising ​
7. Only on the beach and only topless!​
8. A signifiant number of the olive trees on Paxos were in groves and individually owned. There was a system whereby the locals harvested the trees and then delivered the olives to the owners.
9. Paul died on the 29th of February, 1992, a leap year.
10. This was a bit of a pattern for us as slightly less disreputable travellers arriving on a new island.
11. Courtesy of Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Akrotiri_(prehistoric_city)
12. Nowadays Santorini produces expensive luxury wines, particularly top Assyrticos that sell in the UK for around £40
13. Courtesy of Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Pantokrator
14. Yes

* 

So the Isle of Wight it was, and we found accommodation with spectacular sea views just two-and-a-half miles as the crow flies from the Needles, seen here in the early evening.

Maybe I'll start with why we went there.

A trip to St David's in Western Pembrokeshire had been planned for Spring 2025 before I got leukaemia and it was deferred to the beginning of October[1]. We loved being in St David's but the drive was just too much for one driver[2]. So we thought of getting a train to France to visit Shan's cousin, Craig, in Saint-Romain, roughly 50 miles NE as per the proverbial crow from Bordeaux.

I needed to renew our foreign travel insurance which had cost a tad under £150 a year to travel to most of the civilised world. I obviously had to declare my leukaemia and any warning bells turned to sirens. I was put in touch with a call centre in South Africa and was grilled for an hour about my affliction. It turned out they wouldn't insure me for a year, only a one-off trip. I told them about plans to visit Craig for a week and they came back with a quote for circa £650 FOR ONE WEEK. I told the call centre operative as politely as possible what the company could do with that.

"Can you give me a day to come back with maybe something better," she responded and she was true to her word: "great news Mr Harrison I can offer you a better quote ..."
"OK?" I queried.
"How does £630 sound?" her voice smiled.

I gave the company its marching orders and to this day have been badgered, by what is presumably a bot, practically every day. Efforts to obtain a better package from other companies haven't come up with much either. 

So we donned our thinking caps. The drive needed to be a maximum of two hours (within reason) and suddenly the Isle of Wight looked beckoning.

Shan took delivery of a new car (much the same as our old VW ID3 except it can do a considerably greater distance on one charge) on November 13 and we set off 5 days later to try it out. Four years younger than the original and there were subtle differences, particularly with the satnav. My insistence on foregoing the delights of the A34 to Southampton and embracing a shorter route I'd travelled many times a decade or so ago turned the journey from scenic to sceptic. We were catching the ferry from Lymington to Yarmouth and our contingency began to evaporate. Actually it turned out fine with half an hour to spare. That didn't make my case for avoiding the A34 on the return any easier, though.

We arrived at our week's accommodation without much further ado and were delighted with the views from Hurst Castle across the English Channel to what I imagine was Anvil Point Lighthouse 20 miles away.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): views from the journey to Totland Beach x4; leaving Lymington; handy restaurant just down the road; Hurst Castle and surrounds; Bournemouth and even Swanage beyond.

Having taken the car, we set about getting everything but the kitchen sink into our rented apartment. We were slightly daunted by the fact that it was 3 floors up (actually 4 if you counted the bit from the car park to the ground floor) and the instructions from our landlady to access our penthouse from the rear of the building were slightly complex and Shan managed to trip, fall and hurt her knee quite badly.

So far, not so good, but things soon improved. We did a bit of gentle exploring around Totland and adjoining Freshwater before retiring to plan the next day. First stop Shanklin on the opposite side of the island. Just to set the canvas, Totland is about as far West as one can go on the island and Shanklin appeared to be pretty much on the East Coast. My wife and chauffeur looked a tad concerned at my suggestion that we take a Northern loop on the way out and a Southern loop on our return.

Fortunately I was able to point out that the Island was 23 miles wide and 13 miles from top to bottom and that the much maligned large black bird could make its way around the perimeter in less than an hour. In our case travelling from our beach retreat to the delights of the Shanklin Esplanade on the South East coast could be achieved in less than 50 minutes while driving a car sedately.

Our old mate Garnet Currie (from Durban 55 years ago and more recently Surrey), and a frequenter of Shanklin, very kindly compiled a list of said delights of the seaside town. Sadly we were visiting in November and, while the town centre was fairly lively with its retro splendour, the Esplanade was all but shut down.

Above (l-r, top-bottom); a retro shop in the town; smart houses on the clifftop; sea view from the Shanklin clifftop; the lift from the cliff top to the Esplanade.

We had parked the car in a convenient municipal car park with fast charging points and decided to walk through the town to the esplanade. Having admired the houses gazing out to sea from the clifftop we prepared ourself to walk down to the water's edge. The presence of a lift was encouraging but there didn't seem to be any way to activate it so we followed the signs for the path to the bottom.

Alas, the path was closed and it was a substantial walk to the bottom the long way around so we eventually fetched the car and took a quick drive but most of the establishments were closed for winter so we decided to carry on to Ventnor to see if had any more to offer ...

A short drive to the South, we focussed on Ventnor's promenade, which seemed to have a fair bit more going.on. We later discovered that the seafront was in the midst of a Beaujolais Nouveau revival and the patrons of the only pub were spilling out of its doors, many of them in French costume. We decided to try elsewhere and caught sight of a bar/restaurant claiming to offer tapas. It was also offering a seafood chowder with crusty bread and butter and we were sold. Delicious it was, too, and we were pleased we'd forsaken the pub.

Above (l-r, top-bottom); once a figurehead and now begging an obvious question; the enticing menu at The Met; stately housing halfway down the hill; making way for something new?; birds, sea and sand; silhouetted by a threatening sky.

​Ventnor didn't have the towering cliffs of Shanklin but was on the edge of a pretty, steep hill tumbling down to the promenade. We parked at the North end and walked along the much shorter promenade to the entrance to the pub at the South. As well as being full, as previously mentioned, there were a few slightly risqué "statues" that appeared to have been sawn from old boats at some time in the past. On our return walk northwards we noticed excavations where there must have been seafront amusements and now appeared to be being prepared for further construction.

After our sumptuous lunch Shan picked our way in the car up some very steep and narrow lanes to return to the coast road and headed gradually westwards past a place with the intriguing name of Blackgang that didn't look that intriguing when we got there.

What was intriguing, though, was encountering  the back side of the peninsula that ends in The Needles and incorporates the National Trust parks of Needles Headland & Tennyson Down. We first spotted it caught by the sun poking through the cloud to highlight the chalk cliffs. By the time we found a place to stop, however, the sun-as-spotlight on the chalk cliffs had retreated behind the cloud and, no matter how long we waited, refused to reappear in its full glory.

Above (l-r, top-bottom); the back of the Needles headland; will cliffs and clifftop road meet sooner rather than later?; finally the Needles.

The cliff on the right of this panorama, when inspected more closely, revealed that the coast road was becoming scarily close to the edge! Eventually we moved off and sought the actual Needles in the fast fading afternoon light. Shan was able to capture a unique angle on the famous landmark by incorporating the fence preventing careless tourists from tumbling off the cliff that is hidden in the foreground. 

Big day out to Osborne House

Osborne "House" is renowned as Queen Victoria's favourite place[3]. Her beach cottage. Some might think it a folly. Basically she bought the property, including its then existing stately home, from Lady Isabella Blachford in October 1845. It didn't take long for Victoria and her consort Albert to tear down the Blachford home and rebuild to a standard of opulence almost unimaginable in a beach house. It seems he liked the view of the Solent and compared it to the Bay of Naples. Building on this theme, over the next six years an Italian Renaissance palace emerged and the happy couple filled it with priceless bric-a-brac from most of the corners of the globe.

Before you even see the house properly, Prince Albert's love of things arboreal is gorgeously evident. The magnificent trees in parklike surroundings seem contrived to mask the house on your approach. 

Above (l-r, top-bottom); Coastal Pines and various Oaks, including a magnificent Quercus Suber, catch your eye on the way in (3); the North East corner of the house.

When finally revealed in all its glory (the North-Eastern bit viewed from the South-West, at least) the house is pretty ugly. Almost like an overambitious council building[4]. 

Once we were inside, however, the sheer exuberance of the vast decorations and assembled artefacts really does take one's breath away. It was difficult to cull the photographs (encouraged by the owners, English Heritage, BTW[5]). I managed to reduce our selection to the 12 below; I think Shan might have been happier with a few more ...

Above (l-r, top-bottom): a magnificent corridor traverses the rear of the house, crammed with opulent artefacts; a candelabra in a similar vein; a family portrait dominates the 10-seat "family" dining room, which must've needed a spare chair if the whole family was assembled; opulent chaise with an even more opulent piano in the background; a not particularly welcoming waiting room for visitors; the stairway to heaven; about to mount the stairs?; ornate fireplace in main dining room, in which the peacock took 500 hours to complete; main dining room and ceiling; main dining room and minstrels' gallery; Queen Victoria didn't use the stairs; anyone for billiards?

As it was officially Winter we had been confined to the ground floor and the mostly opulent reception areas. An exception was the visitors' reception room, which must have been a bit intimidating with its cramped darkness and horned chairs. There was some hint of what the upstairs floors of the building might have been like with the beautifully light, open staircase in the middle of the building.

The huge statue at the foot of the stairs may have been suggestive of nubian nymphs being transported via these stairs in to the inner sanctum! Who knows what the whims of an empress might have been in the mid 19th century?

Above (l-r, top-bottom): a view from the palace windows across the terrace to the Portsmouth of 2025; another view from the terrace itself down to the sea at the Queen's beach; perhaps the beach cottage is at its most handsome when viewed from the South-East side and framed by trees; trees also form a luscious feature created by the arborist in Prince Albert more or less 175 years ago (x2).

Having gorged ourselves on the contents of the house we decided to take a stroll down to the beach, a matter of some 2 miles once we'd furtled around the Swiss Cottage and the so-called beach. The most helpful man in the shop/entrance to the estate advised us to do this in an anticlockwise direction to avoid struggling up the precipitous hill from beach to cottage. We were grateful to him for this when we encountered some of the uninformed guests battling up the shorter but steeper hill.

​Prince Albert was renowned for the time he spent encouraging his children to the extent that he created  a vegetable garden and playground for them that would have made a sumptuous home for a family of commoners. The main structure being a double story cottage he had bought in Switzerland, had disassembled and reassembled out of sight in a wood in the Osborne grounds[6]. 

​If you're going to expect to do this tour, including traversing the house, plan for around 3 miles of walking (more in Summer if you're allowed upstairs) although there is a bus for the outdoors sections, hence the "Beware of Traffic" sign in the penultimate picture above.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): beautiful avenues abound on the walk and thoughtful benches are placed for tired legs and maybe a bit of contemplation; either this little fella followed me around for most of the walk or there are lot of robins on the estate; Albert had this miniature fortress made for his children to play with their toy soldiers; the royal pair may not have approved of the view we had from the beach with supertankers in the Solent and the Spinnaker Tower dominating the skyline behind it.

As an aside, the Spinnaker Tower in Portsmouth in the distance is 170m (560 ft) high and a Mecca for abseiling. The oldest person in the world to abseil was Doris Long, MBE, who aged 101 years and 55 days abseiled down the Spinnaker Tower on 12th July 2015 breaking the Guinness World Record. She abseiled from 92.96m (305 ft).

Maybe her majesty might have approved of that?

Totland Bay

When we were planning our trip to the Isle of Wight we had several priorities for our accommodation: it had to have great sea views, somewhere not too far from the ferry destination so that the long mainland drive would be mitigated and Totland Bay was reputed to have splendid sunsets for photography.

We chose the penthouse surmounting the building at Pilots Point for all those reasons and also because it had its own parking on the promenade as mentioned above. I had eagerly loaded my VERY heavy camera bag and tripod into the car at home in Oxfordshire and was excited to record some of these legendary sunsets. 

I stupidly hadn't reckoned with the fact that we were headed towards midwinter and the sun in the UK rises and sets in the South, not the East and West as it does in midsummer in Oxfordshire. Rookie error in extremis. Our first sunset was happening on our arrival and it was taking place behind the headland that forms the Southern side of Totland Bay and also hides the Needles.

We consoled ourselves with the compensation that a local, highly-rated restaurant was a hundred yards away with gorgeous views across the sea and I had had visions of sitting in a window table with a glass of wine or beer drinking it all in. Lunches and suppers would also be consumed there during our week's stay ...

I stumbled across there on the second evening we were there and, even though the place was open, all the window tables were roped off. Not much of a view to be had then. Not much local beer either with only the ubiquitous Doom Bar and London Pride waiting to be hand-pulled. The original of the latter (Chiswick to be precise) is kind of obvious from its name and the cask version of the former emanates from Rock in Cornwall. I chose the Pride as the lesser of the two bland beverages and it was well-kept and would probably had been great if I'd been able to sip it overlooking the sea.

We had supper there a day or so later. The food and service was competent but nothing exciting so we resorted to the car to take us further afield. This turned out to be a good thing because we ended up, inter alia, at at least two other venues with delicious food, friendly service and local brews. More of this later.

​So please forgive me for the somewhat less-than exciting sunsets below but I had to get some pics from our penthouse eerie.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): Bournemouth 9 miles across the English Channel in the fading light; our "local" restaurant; this boat has been "resting" on the South side of Totland Bay for more than 3 years[7]; three pictures justifying staying in Totland Beach to photograph the sunset; two pictures in the opposite direction of Totland Pier (closed) in the fading sun, the latter with Hurst Castle in the background; a couple of seagoing boats at the opposite end of the spectrum; the English Channel coastline down to Anvil Point 19 miles away with Bournemouth in the middle.

Th significance of Hurst Castle[8] in the background of the 4th to last pic above is that it sticks out on a promontory from the English mainland and forms the boundary between the Solent[9] and the English Channel and was part of the marine defence from the South during war times starting from 1544.

Dimbola and surrounds - Freshwater Bay
​
​If I had to choose two places that affected me most on the Isle of Wight it would be Osborne House and Freshwater Bay but it was the latter that gave me goosebumps, on more than one occasion. The first sighting of the Tennyson Park headland chalk cliffs in the sunlight (further above) and the Dimbola Museum. Not just the Julia Margaret Cameron photography, although that was the main part of it but also the bonus rooms of posters and pictures from the 1968-70 Isle of Wight Festivals which culminated in Afton Down/Freshwater Bay with half a million people (some estimates claimed it was as high as 800,000)[10]. The circumstances of Jimi Hendrix's death, who played in the 1970 event, are also goosebump material.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): the beginning of Julia Margaret's career; Shan by Mark; Julia Margaret's early equipment; Mark by Shan.

I had first encountered Julia Margaret at the photography museum at Lacock Abbey in Wiltshire where they have a photography museum primarily dedicated to Henry Fox Talbot who created the first photographic negative there in 1835 but also had a section dedicated to Ms Cameron. Over the years a schism developed between Julia Margaret and other photographic pioneers who saw her photographs as blurry and scratchy while they were striving for technical perfection. 

Art vs. technology, basically and, for me, give me painterly photos every time. Any photographic enthusiasts should visit Dimbola to experience the beauty and reality of her work. Shan and I attempted to emulate her style by snapping each other by using some frames and soft-focus screens on loan to the Dimbola from the V&A museum [11]. 

And look for the portraits of Alfred, Lord Tennyson whose Farringford estate was not much more than a stone's throw from Dimbola. It is open to the public at certain times but not when we visited in November.

Just go there. If you can't, a little taste of the gorgeousness of her work can be found on line [12] ... come back and tell me her work is ruined by scratches and soft-focus.

If you happen to make it to Dimbola and Freshwater Bay, it would be a shame not to visit the little thatched St Agnes church just up the road and top it off with lunch at the Piano Café for some unique food and local craft beer[14]. A walk down to the beach and a quick exploration of Fort Redoubt[13] will work off the calories and place another brick in the wall of England's South Coast defences against marauding navies.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): St Agnes church; church window; salty sea dog from Dimbola?; some proper beer available at the Piano Café - fresh with hints of grapefruit.

Isle of Wight roundup

Having imagined that the Isle of Wight was pretty flat, just with chalk cliffs, we were pleasantly surprised to find it undulating and sporting some of the prettiest countryside in England. Without the Pennines. There is a lot of open countryside with handsome small villages and forestry, much of it belonging to the National Trust.

Yarmouth itself is a pretty, handsome small town and has most of the amenities one would wish for when visiting the island, including a substantial yacht harbour and, of course, the ferry terminal. There seems to be plenty of hospitality (there certainly was in November) and a particular small gem is The Gossips Cafe at the entrance to the handsome pier with views along the NW Coast and the edge of West Cowes almost 10 miles away. In the other direction is a clear view of Hurst Castle[8].

In between Yarmouth and West Cowes are the village of Boulder, tumbling down to the sea, and a swathe of National Trust forestry, trisected by the ​Newtown River and the Clamerkin Brook. These waterways provide inland refuge from the Solent. It is definitely worth a drive from Parkhurst via Noke Common and Newtown and swinging back on to the A3054 at Shalfleet.

​Shalfleet sits at the top of the navigable part of a tributary of the Newtown River and has some delights of its own, not the least of which is the New Inn, which does a great Sunday lunch and cask local beer on tap. The area along the West Coast from Yarmouth to Freshwater Bay (via the Needles) and bounded by the Yar River in the East boasts a combination of breathtaking views and well-heeled coastal houses offering accommodation while still managing to retain a mostly rural environment. Much of this is discussed earlier in this article but deserves a mini roundup.

Above (l-r): the Shalfleet area is part of a vast coastal forest across the top of the Isle of Wight; the New Inn was one of the few places we visited that served local island beer; possibly the best chicken and leek pies you'll ever eat with mushy peas and chips to match.

The Island Brewery, home of Wight Christmas cask beer (pics above) and Yachtsman's Ale (pics below) are made at Dinglers Farm near Shalfleet. It seems there's a lot more going on in the middle of the island in winter than the renowned popular coastal towns such as Shanklin.

Getting back to Yarmouth. The little port is situated on the North coast at the mouth of the River Western Yar (referred to as theYar), whose source allegedly lies something around 300 yards from the South Coast of the island. This makes one wonder if the bit of the island West of o the Yar might just drift off one day to form another island (the WIoW, perhaps?).

 In the middle of the Yar is a pretty stretch of water named by some as the Western Yar Lake and has one of the few crossings between EIoW and WIoW known as The Causeway (the others being the A3045, the A3055 and Blackbridge Road). This causeway lies just down a steep narrow road from the WIoW pub, the Red Lion, where we''d hoped have lunch on the Sunday but was full. A serendipitous phone call then allowed us to slip across the causeway to nab one of the last  tables at the New Inn in Shalfleet! What welcoming staff ... it helps to know one's local stuff on the Isle.

We left the island on the ferry from Yarmouth temporarily sated but, even now as I attempt this blog, various reasons to go back there keep intruding in my thoughts.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): some things on Yarmouth are just quaint; the handsome pair offers views in many directions from East to West, with the former being the coast line towards Cowes, and the latter one of many views of Hurst Castle; a glass of local beer in The Gossips Cafe; Waiting for the return ferry to Lymmington; the view back from the ferry highlighting how narrow the gap is between The Needles and Hurst Castle.

So not too easy to slip into the Solent from the West!
​
As an endnote when describing our choice of access to the Isle of Wight, various friends, including Rob and Vince, were eager to point out that this boat was the "Most expensive ferry per mile in the world"! Thanks guys but it was fun and relatively painless.

Last Gasp Geek Stuff

​I'd gone to the Isle of Wight armed with photographic equipment including my: Nikon D750, 4 lenses, a large flash and battery pack, tripod; Panasonic DC-DZ95C with built in Leica Zoom; trusty iPhone 15 Pro. 

It kind of begs the question: "What is the best camera for travel photography?"
And the answer: "The one you have to hand when you most need it!"

All 4 pictures below were taken when all I had on me was my iPhone.

Above (top-bottom): a few days of 40 mph+ winds brought some scary waves to batter the promenade; three pictures that speak for themselves but all relied on the camera (iPhone) on hand at the time.

Sure, if pin point accuracy in focussing is an important priority (for birds for eg.) then the sophisticated kit is the business, so who's going to buy me a mirrorless Nikon Z for Christmas for those occasional situations when I most need it during the few months left at my disposal?

[Endnotes]:

1. ​See https://www.marksadventures.co.uk/all-personal-blogs/welsh-dog-sitting-holiday-postponed-by-leukaemia.
2. Shan ... I'd been unable to drive due to a shoulder injury.
3. I subscribe to Wikipedia so pretty much the full Monty is available here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osborne_House
4. Objections on a "postcard" to blog address
5. Taking photographs was encouraged by the staff who were vigilant and everywhere.
6. The Swiss Cottage and accoutrements:  https://www.english-heritage.org.uk/visit/places/osborne/things-to-do/swiss-cottage/#:~:text=Hidden%20in%20the%20woods%20at,its%20own%20gardens%20and%20museum.
7. Read all about it at https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-wiltshire-68325963 
8. See English Heritage for more: https://www.hurstcastle.co.uk/history-of-the-castle/
9. The stretch of water separating the Isle of Wight from the mainland
10. Wikipedia summary of the 1970 event: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isle_of_Wight_Festival_1970
11. Spot the island relationship here with Victoria and Albert.
12. Introduction to Julia Margaret Cameron: https://collections.vam.ac.uk/search/?id_person=A8214&page=1&page_size=15
13. Fort Redoubt: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freshwater_Redoubt
14. WIGHTKnuckle local brewery: https://www.wightknucklebrewery.com/ 
15. A bit about Fort/(a.k.a. Freshwater) Redoubt; https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freshwater_Redoubt 
16. The Caul Bourn: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/River_Caul_Bourne#:~:text=The%20stream%20is%203%20miles,36%2C000%20of%20damage%20between%20them.

Above: Doting grandmother with friends; Saturday morning is a little more optimistic after tile-rattling winds in the middle of the night and everything looks enticing for Georgie's first walk.

I'm sure regular readers of my ramblings will be familiar with the joy that occurred with the birth of Niamh Ava Lyon on the 4th of December, 2024. Life had changed for ever after a long wait for her parents, our daughter, Kate, and her husband, Andrew, whose dad, Pete, and his wife, Sue, live in Australia on the Gold Coast.

Shelley-ann (Shan), Andrew's mum, Wendy, and I were the lucky ones as it was not recommended for babies to travel on long flights (eg. to Australia) for three months. But it was inevitable and we were more than happy that Niamh should be presented to Pete and Sue as soon as possible after that.

We were to share the joys of their delightful Parson Terrier, Georgie, with Wendy and her partner Mareike during the month the new parents would be in Australia. We decided we'd spend some of that time taking Georgie on a walking holiday in one of the most spectacular parts of the country that combines rugged beauty and a magnificent coastline punctuated by sandy beaches. We booked the St David's Long House (Tŷ Hir, Rhos-y-Cribed) for 7 nights, starting from the 21st of March.

Andrew, Kate and Niamh departed on the 28th of February.

​The Sh*t hit the fan

​I was rushed to hospital with suspected diverticulitis on the 5th of March and during the same 24 hours diagnosed with suspected Acute Myeloid Leukaemia (AML). On the 7th the diagnosis was confirmed following a bone marrow sample taken by a specialist from the Churchill Hospital.

It took a day or two for this to sink in and I contacted the owner of Tŷ Hir, Catrin Howkins, to say we'd not be able to take up our reservation and were content to forfeit the cost that had been paid in full. She was amazingly sympathetic and insisted that she'd hold the amount over until we could recommence our visit.

I explained the severity of the diagnosis and that we may never be able to go but she insisted on keeping it open for us.

In the meantime Shan asserted wisely that we should tell Kate and that she would phone her in Australia. Kate wanted to fly back immediately but my dear wife was able to talk her out of it and thereby bear the brunt of what was happening in our lives.

Above: (top, l-r) Niamh at 2 days day old, almost 7 months old, 10 months old and at Ty Hir in St David's eating mild curry; (below, (l-r) Andrew, Georgie and I walked into the city and first encountered the comprehensive ruins of the Bishop's palace and attempted to rationalise the Bishop's decision to build an even bigger cathedral in such a small community.

To cut a long story short that brunt was pretty awful for anyone to bear as I was useless and non compos mentis for much of the time and a couple of weeks in hospital became more than a couple of months with me being released into home-based palliative care on the 14th of May. I was administered antibiotics by drip every day for another 5 weeks and suddenly became "free".

Not entirely free because I would continue to have AML but I was still alive with a month or two to live. A second round of chemotherapy was ruled out as "just as likely to kill you as save you". So now it's mid October and I'm still going strong and we've just come back from a week in St David's! 

Whither do we wander? I really don't know. My chances of surviving this beast remain in the low single figure %s but we are going to seize the day and the rest of this story is about a week in which we set about doing this.

And now we are six

And circumstances have forced us to be spending four hours forging our way directly into 2025's first named storm: Storm Amy. Everyone around the Northern Atlantic has been battening down the hatches as my doughty Shan is peering into the gloom on the M4 and holding on to the steering wheel for dear life[1]. We are travelling to the extreme Western edge of the UK[2] with nothing other than Ireland breaking the force of the gale across the Atlantic from Newfoundland. Gusts of around 100 km/h are not infrequent the further West we travel.

Shan's glass(es) of wine that evening were richly deserved!

Above (l-r, top-bottom): the River Alun bisects the holy ground between the cathedral and the castle; cathedral seen from a "window' in the palace; an explanation of the Great Chamber; the Great Chamber as it is today; the room opposing the chamber where matters of state were carried out; view of the East range with the grassy courtyard.

​​St David, himself, died on the 1st of March, 589. Things are a bit hazy between then and 1115 when the first Norman Bishop, Bernard, was appointed and set about building the original cathedral. Anecdotally, an incumbent Pope declared the cathedral the second most important place for pilgrimage after St Peter's in Rome.

​Evidently, a couple of centuries later, Bishop Henry de Gower decided that a more handsome edifice was needed for someone of his status and commissioned the construction of the palace a short walk from the cathedral just across the River Alun. It consisted of an east range for his private domain and a south range for show and ceremony. It was here in the great hall that Bishop Henry dispensed justice, held feasts and welcomed distinguished pilgrims.

Legend has it that the Reformation, another 200 years later, saw the beginning of the palace's descent into ruin. In fact, evidently William Barlow, the first Protestant Bishop of St Davids, decided to strip the lead from the roof, bringing about a slow decline. Nevertheless, the ruins provide a majestic counterpoint to the cathedral and are worthy of a visit.

Of course, so is the cathedral, which includes, inter-alia, a sloping floor and a central tower that has fallen over twice during its lifetime. These have been attributed to gradual shifting of the earth beneath the structure itself.
​
​​Andrew's, Geogie's and my walk from Tŷ Hir was more or less parallel to the River Afun as it meanders a mile or two from the tiny city to the St Brides Bay and the sea at Porthclais Harbour. The Smallest City in the UK is an understatement with a population of 1,751 according to the most recent census 4 years ago, a number that is slightly down on the previous count 10 years earlier.

​The choice of great food and drink is way out of proportion to its population but more about that after a brief look at the modest walks we undertook from our cosy lodgings.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): Setting off on our coast to coast with St Brides Bay catching the morning light in the background; we encountered some similarities with the Western Cape (South Africa) in the juxtaposition of historic and modern; reached the other side and Whitesands Bay; a delighted Georgie free from her lead for a while; an external kazi reminiscent of the older Western Cape; ditto the houses[3] and the rocky outcrops.

​The vestiges of Storm Amy made walking on our first full day a little daunting but Andrew, Georgie the dog and I decided to brave it and walk into town, a distance of just over a mile. As is quite common in the British western parts the roads have centuries-old stone-wall-cum-hedgerow structures taller than a person and these, for the most part, protected us from the chilly wind and it wasn't too long before we were taking in the peripheral view of the palace and cathedral combo and contemplating a venue for lunch. The Farmer's Arms pub was first on our list but had closed its kitchen. A quick pint and we moved on to GRAIN for the most sumptuous pizzas and an eclectic list of beers, all of them seemingly good and different. A good collection of shops and interesting grocery establishments lured us back on several occasions.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): Kate and Niamh when our postponed holiday was confirmed; we've arrived and Kate and Andrew tuck in; Kate out walking; Shan and Georgie returning from Whitesands Bay.

​The "proper" walking begins

At least inasmuch as I could attempt in my temporary remission from Leukaemia. 

Our first was across country to a sandy beach at Whitesands Bay, the name being a bit of a giveaway. We had promised Georgie she could be let off her leash for a free run and her joy was worth the 5-mile round trip. I did manage the walk but staggered a bit on the last km.

The next day we did a pukka coastal path walk to another Geogie-friendly sandy beach. On the way we passed the St Non's cliff and Cathedral Cave. I have no idea who St Non[4] was but legend has it that St David was born at this spot. There is a small ruin there which might have been St David's birthplace but the Cave is the real cathedral, which hopefully one or two pics of our walk will demonstrate.

​I refrained from descending right down to the beach before turning back towards St David's due my legs being on fire but the others did before we walked into the city and The Bishops, another fine establishment for a hearty pub lunch and some local beer. I personally struggled to complete the last mile back to Tŷ Hir but the others all took the walk in their stride.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): the rugged coastline of Pembrokeshire from the mouth of the Alun to the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park with St Non's Cathedral (cave) in the middle ground; The estuary and small harbour at the mouth of the Alun; a view across the bay to St Brides and Skomer Island; close up of the cave; an inlet in St Non's Bay; the other 5 gambolling on Caerfai Bay beach; one sip into the reward of getting to St David's the long way around.

​​Last "big" walk

​Actually it wasn't a huge walk but three+two of us were keen to stroll out to the local RNLI St David's Lifeboat Station, a journey of 3.3 miles out and back and pretty gentle apart from descending and ascending to and from the beach to photograph the launching stations. It was worth it though and probably contributed a teeny bit to working off a sumptuous brunch I had had that morning of avo toast with poached eggs at the Brunch House in the city.

There are two lifeboat stations at the site. One looks as if it's really up to date and the other is a bit older but with an impressive wooden structure supporting it way above the beach below.

It seems there are boat trips from there to and around Ramsey Island. We could see the island a short distance away but had run out of time to avail ourselves of an hour or two travelling to/around it.

A bit more about food and drink in St David's

The following places caught our attention:

1. SANTOS TŶ TAPAS; really is as good as some of the better establishments in the Old Town of Donostia and even serves Burnt Cheesecake. A top notch Ribera de Duero available.
2. GRAIN; a quirky decor with mean pizzas and a beer list that requires more than one visit.
3. The Bishops: a proper pub with great food and a couple of local beers on tap.
4. The aforementioned Brunch House at the Oriel y Park Gallery and Visitor Centre.
5. A couple of fish and chip places that looked enticing but we didn't visit because one of us doesn't eat fish.
6. At least two delis that had some interesting stuff and the odd acceptable wine.
7. A groovy surf shop with very friendly staff and coffee.

Above (l-r, top-bottom): the old lifeboat station; access to it from the cliff path; the new lifeboat station;
access to it from the cliff path; a "pleasure" boat returning from Ramsey Island and executing a bit of slalom, presumably for the passengers' thrills; a piece of the old village of Rhosson nearby.

The journey home

The 4-hour return journey seemed more gruelling than the outward trip forging its way into the teeth of Storm Amy. The traffic on the M4 around the major cities on the Welsh South Coast was pretty horrendous and Shan's back was in agony by the time we reached home. My aches and pains were trivial by comparison but nagging nonetheless.

We resolved that the travelling was worth it but, perhaps, at our age, a week's holiday should be extended at either end for interim luxury stops for the night ... and maybe take the more scenic routes in the process. Will I make another journey of this magnitude? Only time and the demon AML will tell!

Above (l-r): preparing for a 140 km ride in subzero temperatures in 1978 after Andy Newby's first wedding, in Nottingham Road; Les Paul giving some tips on how to hold a (Gibson Les Paul) guitar, old git walking in the Drakensberg foothills with son-in-law, Andrew Lyon.

In early 2025 I ended up with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia (AML). This is, for old blokes in their 70s, pretty much guaranteed to be fatal. We tried to let people know discreetly but our bush telegraph didn't include the lovely Lizzie and Ray from three houses down. We'd always greeted them in passing and stopped for a friendly chat when we were all on foot but it didn't progress past some friendly banter.

​Shan relates how they finally got to know: "One of the things I most dreaded after Mark's diagnosis was encountering someone on the street and them cheerily enquiring after our health (mine and Mark's). Having to explain his illness was like revisiting the shock of his diagnosis. To prevent this, I asked our friends in Faringdon to spread the word that Mark had leukaemia. And then I bumped into Lizzie who cheerily asked the very thing I had dreaded. Poor Lizzie was understandably shocked and asked if she could visit Mark."

The next thing, Lizzie asked if she could pop around. A time was arranged and she came bearing a script for a version of a Desert Island Discs[1] she and Ray had done for a friend of hers. If I was willing, they'd like to do the same thing for me.

Well, I was more than willing ... I was honoured and Ray, a long term musician (more recently in his spare time) inveigled his comrade in arms, Pete, who has a studio, to help with the recording.

The broadcast is now as ready as it will ever be without endless tinkering and nitpicking and Shan and I are really chuffed.

So, I'm going to give my blog readers the link so that they can listen to it, too.

Above: With the naked eye, this is what you see when staring out from our panoramic windows that face 312* NW. One can just about make out a formation of trees on the horizon. 

The land in between Faringdon and our subject dips off a bit initially and then rises gently until it kicks up just beyond the Fosse Way between Cirencester and Northleach. After that the terrain starts to drop off again in a Cheese-rolling[1] rollercoaster into Cheltenham and Gloucester (which are at an altitude lower than Faringdon).

In fact Faringdon sits up slightly on a small ridge in the Thames Valley between the Berkshire Downs and the Cotswolds proper. Both the Downs and the Cotswolds rise to more than 200 metres above sea level. Faringdon itself ranges from 100 metres around Canada Lane to 154 metres at the top of Folly Hill. Because of this elevation above the valley floor, there is nothing of sufficient altitude to block the view to the horizon on the 230 metre contour line more than 28 km away, just outside Yanworth in Gloucestershire.

Above: sometimes the horizon is best seen at sunset and occasionally can be viewed pretty clearly during the day (if the sky is clear which has been a pretty rare occasion in 2025).

During a mini booze-up at Shelley-ann's (Shan's) and my house, involving a couple of fresh boxes of real ale, the horizon showed off in splendour (see above). I let it be known to the assembled cognoscenti that we had started to call this view "our own Sycamore Gap[2]". This piqued the interest of some of the revellers, none more so than Andrew Goodwin, a professional surveyor of some repute. He made an appointment to come around the following Thursday. During the time interval he was going to acquire a pukka hand-held yachting compass[3} to make the operation a lot more scientific.

Above; Andrew applying a little bit of science to the location.

Andrew pitched up as promised, armed with compass and the appropriate Ordnance Survey map[4], and we set about plotting the location of our "Sycamore Gap". It turned out that it required some closer investigation of our Thursday's efforts and as Andrew was headed in the general direction the following day he would attempt some verification while in the general area. Roger Star, a.k.a Starry, accompanied him on that and a subsequent more specific investigation with the result that I received some excited messages informing me that the Gap had been all but located and they would be most delighted to show it to Shan and me.

​An outing was planned for the following Monday. Andrew and Starry had ascertained from the Stowell Park Estate office that it would be wise to arrange the visit through them to prevent the ire of the occasional game keeper, who might otherwise lock us in on the gated road.

Above l-r, top-bottom: we think we've found the "tree[5]"; looking from the tree(s) towards Faringdon using a standard lens setting, revealing not much at all apart from the stony surface of the fields around there; c'est moi struggling with a paper map in the fresh breeze and making very little headway - the Berkshire Downs are faintly discernible in the far background (approx 40 km away), though; up close to the "Sycamore(s)" amongst 10 other trees with the giveaway pylon confirming its location.

​Andrew also kindly insisted on driving the four of us to the site in Yanworth where he would introduce us to the Stowell Park  estate manager, James. It all went off like clockwork and, by the time we had parked the vehicle and trudged across the Cotswold stone strewn field to the "tree", it was obvious that we were at the hallowed spot as viewed from our house in Faringdon. As we had suspected, it was more than a single tree; in fact a healthy clump of more than 12 assorted healthy, mature trees.

We did breathe a sigh of relief when we (Starry) identified at least two Sycamores amongst the assembled mature soldiers.

Turning to the South-East for the ultimate verification shot of our house along with yellow awning (left open to mark the spot), it turned out that the Southern part of the Thames Valley had become shrouded in cloudy mist. I had brought three cameras: iPhone 15, handy Panasonic Lumix with 60x Leica zoom lens, and the big beast Nikon D750 with a 300mm telephoto.

Sadly, in our excitement to set off into the deepest Cotswolds I forgot to load my tripod into Andrew's Volvo so that when we arrived at the hallowed site, and were confronted with a few hundred metres of rocky Cotswold stone to get to the epicentre, I chose to leave the Nikon in the car.

​It was impossible to locate our town in the low-lying cloud so I took a few shots and I believe Shan snatched my camera from me in frustration to take a few more. Shooting blind in the foggy conditions we attempted to pan into the unknown before bringing the pictures home to see if any optimistic results might emerge.

Above (l-r): elevation of the map on the right with Yanworth (Sycamore Gap) 230 metres above sea level in the middle and "crow flies" directions to the Uffington White Horse on the left and Faringdon on the right; the OS map on which this is based.

What next

One fine day, if we ever have one, we'll provide updated pictures, particularly of Faringdon taken from our "tree" on the Stowell Estate.

Endnotes:

1. For a little more detail see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cooper%27s_Hill_Cheese-Rolling_and_Wake
2. From a distance there appears to be a single large tree. In fact it is a substantial clump that includes some sycamores (2, we think).
3. I now feel a tad guilty about AG's acquisition because it turns out that all modern iPhones have pretty competent compasses and Andrew, Starry (who joined the throng), Shelley-ann and I all have modern iPhones!
4. Landranger 163; Cheltenham and Cirencester area (1 1/2 in to 1 mile; 2cm to 1 km;1:50 000)
5. Named after the victim of the sad vandalism of the more famous Sycamore Gap
6. Sycamore Gap in Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sycamore_Gap_tree  ​​​

Reading between the lines, tranche #1 of the hospital treatment from mid-March to mid-June had definitely been beneficial, in that the Leukaemia/AML had been much reduced for an indefinite period, A second tranche had a far smaller chance of a similar impact.

​The bottom line was that it would be my choice whether to undergo further treatment for potentially minimal benefit or use what time is left to seize each day to focus on the quality of life.

The biggest decision of my life.

I had been so determined to perhaps gain another year of life that I hadn't considered the other possibilities. I was going to have another tranche of Chemo and that was it. I was in a hurry because I had heard/read that the first tranche would be gradually eroded the longer I left commencing the second. I had never really considered other possibilities. I was going to live for more than another year.

Much of the time I was in hospital I was so out of it with the intended Chemo treatment competing with the ghostly infection(s) that I hadn't comprehended the seriousness of it all. Meanwhile the professionals and my family didn't wish to upset the applecart by risking destroying my hope. There were subtle hints but they needed the experts to confirm the situation for me.

Surprisingly, there must have been an inkling in my own mind that signalled the message that was confirmed by the experts on the day of the end of my palliative care. The message was one of balancing outcomes, none of which could be cast in stone, but the most compelling was: "no more chemo."

Above (l-r): three generations (Andrew took the pic); engineer and guard dog.

So how much longer?

This was a question no-one could answer. The consensus was perhaps weeks or months. This is kind of ironic seeing as I'm feeling pretty good at the moment with palliative care having just come to an end.

Sure, it's a bit patchy from day to day with the odd head rush, feeling of being a bit knackered and stiff, wobbly legs but it certainly doesn't feel as if I'm on my way any time soon ...

C'mon Grampa, we gotta get you outta this place ...

A step before the rest of my life and Niamh was probably getting sick of being dragged to hospital most days for a month. The determination on her little face says it all. Actually this was taken before the First Day of my New Life and it turned out that the route to Nirvana had a few obstacles yet.

One of these was settling into a new environment in which one was technically "out of hospital" but rather confined to home hospital and antibiotics seven days a week. Brilliant service but that wiped out most of the day with the medication being delivered over a flexible period by some Heath Robinson devices tailored for our "spare" bedroom.

But, as should be obvious, I'm now back at the keyboard having undergone a 6 and a half hour blood transfusion back at the Great Western Hospital this last Saturday (actually almost 3 weeks ago). Perhaps June will deliver better prospects for rebuilding our lives. Happily, Niamh, is unaware of life's shenanigans but Shan, Kate and Andrew definitely are not and I often feel things are more stressful for them than they are for me. 

Makeshift antibiotic drip set up in our spare bedroom with handy bathroom and PICC line bowser ...

Hang the container as high as possible and place the recumbent patient way below and gravity does the job: actually not very different from the hospital IV drip stand; just takes a little longer to set up.

​So once that's all in place, time can be liberated for creative activities;

Such as re-shuffling and editing Mark's Roaminations blogosphere and perhaps even creating some new stuff recording the goings on of a positive approach to life in the 25s and 26s.

To start with I have finally, this very afternoon, managed to access WhatsApp from my phone, iPad and MacPro. Haven't cracked the watch yet but all things seem possible; although WatchWhapsApp could prove to become irritating; we shall see ...

​In the mean time, the swings and arrows of determining the path of my Leukaemia treatment have hoovered up all of my initiative to plod on with my bloggerations and I really need to drop an update before what could be a turning point this coming Tuesday when I will visit the Senior Consultant directing my aspirations for a path to maximising my useful life for the next near or so.

The best case scenario will be to resume a course of chemotherapy (Chemo) that will achieve this.

In the ideal world this will consist of 4 or 5 more 4-week blocks of combined chemo and recovery leading up to a period of more or less normal existence for maybe a year until the whole cycle resumes but with a shorter life expectancy.

Three months is a long time in the life of a little girl ... in the middle shot she is trying out solids and has a temporary reaction to roasted aubergine that lasted all of a few minutes, not that she seemed too distressed about it.

In reality

In reality it has taken 12 weeks to reach this point of expectancy for Tuesday; i.e., the fantasy world did not happen and we may even have to start from Block One again because the individual tranches can lose their efficacy if they take too long. In my case a mystery infection has delayed things by two months and (perhaps maybe for even longer) with a debate amongst the experts as to whether my lurid, swollen big toe was the result of an infection or of a bout of gout. I hadn't even realised they were different afflictions.

Best case scenario: could take 5 or 6 months from Tuesday before for the necessary number of chemo ​blocks of injections and pills will pause for some productive time.

Who knows what the verdict will be from post-Tuesday.

So bated breath is going to be the order of the day for the remainder of this weekend ...

New kid on the block