Thursday, 15 June 2017

Three Balloons

As I stood and leaned 
Upon my own small balcony
Like some lovelorn Juliet
Smoking the last of the cubans 
(A relic of happier times)
I regarded the old oil ships
Laid up in Leith Harbour
Already with the patina of rust
Showing though their painted lines.

My eye was caught by a child’s balloon
Fleeing towards the storm tossed skies.
Silver it was, the colour of purest love
It was flying from me,
Shining as it caught to the low rays
Of the evening Sun.

My eyes followed its path
Until it was lost.
But then another balloon came 
This was as red as passion
Swiftly followed by another,
Redder still, both hearts glowed
One pursuing the other,
Departing together.

Only the ships and the snow white gulls
Rust red and brightest white
Remain but neither are there for me.

Sunday, 4 October 2015

Break Down the Bomb

With twenty five time
More power
Than it took
To take down
Each Trident rocket
Has got three

Surprise attack
Means less that
Four minutes warning
The bloom of death
And all
In the city
Will be dead.

Is this what we have become?
Is this what must be done?
What amount of craziness
Would it take to push
That red button?

Put away the button
Throw away the keys
Ain't no use
Killing our brothers and sisters
And bringing all to our knees.

Break down the Bomb
We say
Break down the Bomb
For we will be
Our brother's keeper
In this world
Not the next.

Saturday, 3 October 2015


It is a strange world
When those leaders
Who refuse to kill
Millions with
Nuclear weapons
Are denounced
As weak.

When bombing
A bombed-out
Is seen as
The road to peace.
When the young
Die in shootings
For somebody
Else's rights.

Where sanitised
Is offered as mass
While the real
Results are
Too graphic
To show.

It's not such a strange world
It's just what we are taught
To value is wrong.

Thursday, 18 December 2014

Winter Day Dream

I want to be under a bright blue sky
Cobwebbed with thin white cloud,
Feeling the heat of a yellow-white sun
Upon my bare skin.

I want to taste the salt-lick air
Of an azured jade sea
The soft sand sticking to me
After my bath-warm swim.

An iced, sweet-sour drink
On the lips of my love
For us both to savour
Through the languid night.

And nothing to do
Come the next day
But to do it all again.

I need a vacation.

Thursday, 8 May 2014

Spring Again.

Glad to see Spring again
To see the green leaves unfurl
The soft chemistry flowing
Bringing life into view once again.

Glad to feel the wind again
Not to buffet and draw one’s coat closer
But as a gentle caress
Ladened with the sweet
Green smells of Spring.

Glad to feel the Sun’s warmth again
As when one long away
From a loved one, and then returns
Feels her warmth in the bed
And knows that one is home again.

Monday, 22 July 2013

Holiday Review - Mandarin Grove, Fodele, Crete

There are eight apartments in this small complex set in the heart of the village of Fodele and it is my understanding that all are of a similar specification, varying between one and two bedrooms.   We stayed in Daisy as a family of three and found the accommodation very suitable for our needs.  The ground floor is open-plan kitchen / diner / living room (with an additional shower-room), patio-windows to the front and a small seating area to the back which is not overlooked by the neighbours, except when the nearby church is in use.  Up the spiral stairs there are the two bedrooms, both with a balcony, and another shower room.  It would be well to point out that the stairs make the place unsuitable for the frail and disabled.  At the very top is also a roof terrace but with very awkward access through a small hatch.

All Daisy’s rooms have air-conditioning and the place in general are well, but not luxuriously, appointed.  Included are cooker, microwave and kitchen utensils, dishwasher and a washing machine out the back.  There is also satellite television but most channels are in Arabic.  Sheets and towels are replaced weekly.
In the communal area are a small but very pleasant swimming pool and a rather good Jacuzzi.  We found the place very safe for children, with a well-shaded playground close to the gates of the complex.  Guests will be met by the friendly caretakers Angie and Paul, who between them will be very happy brief you on the facilities and answer any questions concerning the complex or other matters Cretan. 

Owing to the fact that Mandarin Grove is the heart of the village, a word has to be said as the place and neighbours.  As the website informs visitors, this is a real working village so if one were seeking blissful silence at night, think again.  Animals kept by the neighbours will swiftly shatter the idyll. 

Fodele itself is a very pleasant place set in the valley of the same name.  A working village it is but one that does cater for tourists so there are plenty of places to eat and to buy your locally-made produce and souvenirs.    Out of the numerous tavernas, the pick must be Cafe Domenico run by Smoothie George.  It is his wife Eva who does the actual cooking and the house specials (to be ordered the day before) are to die for.   Her moussaka is the very best!  Try the sheep’s milk ice cream afterwards, if you have space that is. .  Cafe Domenico also does full English breakfasts but if your appetite in the morning isn’t so large then pop in to the nearby bakery for fresh bread and pastries, both sweet and savoury. 

As for the souvenirs, many are indeed local and do not have the phrase “made in China” stamped underneath.  There is a small pottery in the village which is happy to give children a go at throwing their own pot; the local ladies hand-crochet many of the soft-goods and wonderful, locally-produced, olive oil and honey is available.   The Fodele honey is superb but as always, shop around.  Some retailers charge up to €5.50 for a 250g tin while just down the street the same goods will be available for €3.50, or even just €12.00 a kilo, offering even better value.

For the wider area, 3 km to the north, Fodele beach is pretty good but a bit rocky to each end.   We had extended family staying in the Fodele Beach Resort so were able to use the loungers there for free (as guests of guests) but if one does not have that connection then they cost €3.00 each per day.  Better to go along to the other beach-front places and hire a lounger for the price of a drink.

A kilometre’s walk out of Fodele brings one to the thousand-year-old church of Agia Panagia.  Although many defaced, the icons within are beautiful indeed.  The church is opposite to the El Greco museum.  Since the museum does not hold any of the artist’s works (it is suggested he was born here) then frankly I didn't bother to go in.

Being a geologist, one thing I did spot in Fodele that isn't mentioned elsewhere is the remains of a pretty impressive fossilised coral reef, to be found opposite the church in the centre of the village.  The various corals are obvious to all, even to inexpert eyes with no special equipment and it is a great site to show children a wonderful fossil bed.  I would ask though that visitors don’t start hacking out the corals though; it seems that much of the reef has already been destroyed by the demands of village life.

My favourite walk though is the four kilometres up the Monastery of Agios Panteleimon, up a quiet and well-shaded mountain road.  The mountains are spectacular and there is plenty of wildlife; lizards are a common sight and over our stay we saw both eagles and ravens patrolling above the valley.  Do remember to take plenty of water with you though and a sun hat is always a good idea!  If bird-spotting is your thing though, head to the hills in the south of the island for a chance to see griffon vultures; dramatic animals with wing spans of almost three metres.

All in all, we had a wonderful stay in Fodele.  Being less than half an hour from Heraklion and Knossos and fairly central in the island, it makes a great base from which to explore using a hire car.   One can also head west along the magnificent E75 coast road to Rethimnon and Chania.  With friendly people, sunshine, spectacular countryside, good beaches, ancient cultural sites and fresh, tasty local food and drink on offer, I have no hesitation in recommending Crete for your next holiday.

Photo credits Maria. Veart-Shevchenko.  AKA Mrs V..

Tuesday, 25 December 2012

Driving Etna

“Why don’t you go up Etna?”

“What? Climb it?” I asked. “It’s a bit big.”

“Nah, you can drive up to the top. Well almost. Not all the way of course.”

Etna is huge. My first view of it was out of the aircraft window and I was totally disorientated: we had descended out of cloud and immediately saw an ice-capped, smoking crater. Along the profile of the mountain, smaller cones and domes were peppered on the flanks. As far as volcanoes go, this was the real deal. What also struck me was how seemingly close the towns of the region where stuck to the flanks of the not-so-sleeping giant.

I arrived on a Sunday and had to drive straight to the rig site and start work. The job was on-going however and soon finished. After completing the rig-down the equipment the next day, I ferried my friend Big Vinnie to the airport back at Catania. With a good part of the afternoon still left, I had time to see the mountain up close. Starting from the airport, I soon picked up the brown tourists signs for Etna South. Once off the autostrada though, the narrow roads rapidly became clogged with traffic. If it had been any later in the day, I would have surely got disheartened and turned back.

Now some of my friends from northern Italy are a bit sniffy about the standards of driving here. With near-empty road the previous day, I had had a gentle introduction but now was undergoing the authentic Sicilian experience. After the initial shock, there is logic to it. Drivers here can be divided into two camps: the older generation who still have not got used to the novel luxury of driving a motor car (many seem to be still behind the wheel of the first car they owned) and the rest, who naturally want to get to their destination as soon as possible. There is no in-between. So if one is sticking roughly to the speed limits and keeping distance between ones vehicle and the next one ahead, then one is obviously old-school and demand to be overtaken. Whenever the opportunity arises: just before roundabouts, traffic lights, pedestrian crossings; all are fair game. It’s craziness but even open stretches of road can be used for overtaking.

Sicilian drivers do tend to respect pedestrian crossings though. It would be foolhardy to bet one’s life on it on every occasion but in the north of the country the white stripes are regarded as nothing more than road decoration. Once in Ravenna, I remember stopping for a mother pushing her child in a pram at a crossing and for my trouble being beeped at by the cars behind. Even the weaving bikes and scooters, who know no concept of lane discipline, stop at the crossings here. In Sicily they are very tolerant of drivers edging into the busy roads. It is expected that if there is a long column of traffic, somebody coming in from a side road will attempt to cross it. Why should they be expected to wait for a gap that may be ten or so minutes away? Use of the horn is only for when traffic was snarled to a complete halt. In other places, the horn would be instantly applied with neither mercy nor hesitation whenever the fool driving the mediocre hire car stalls the damned thing for the second time. Not so in Sicily.

In fact, the whole experience reminds me of the “shared roads” experiments where all road signs, markings, pavements etc. are removed completely. Except here it is done at high speed. The main criticism I can make though is that I have never seem so many dead cats, dogs and other road-kill lining the highways. Nor, for that matter, flowers and other memorials marking the fate of loved ones who did not make it safely home.

The road ascending Etna is a real feat of engineering. Well marked and maintained, it carves up the increasingly naked slopes hairpin by hairpin.

At the very top is a small community of shops and restaurants. Nobody lives here; the hut that sold me an americano and some doubtless-overpriced nut bar had been almost completely buried by ash in 2000. It nestles tightly into its would-be grave maker, a two-hundred foot-tall cone of dark ash. Upon my arrival, this peak was populated by a class of senior
high-school students and their teachers. As I started up, they were coming down. At first I smiled at the hesitant descend of the staff and the squeals of the girls but soon came to understand their caution. Walking across new ash is a bit like scree: unstable but grippy. But this rubble was not as strong as most scree: countless feet had churned it into the texture of loose garden soil. Now imagine trying to either climb or descend across freshly-tilled earth on a one-in-three gradient slope. In the past I have done my share of hills but never across such a surface. One of the girls had shouted “bueno fortuna” to me on the way up and once I reached the summit it was clear why. The wind was whipping across the top of the cone at what felt like was fifty or sixty knots. On the loose surface I was nearly blown off my feet several times. Down at sea level, the temperature was a pleasant eighteen degrees Celsius. Here it was plus six. Despite the geologist in me wanting to stay to examine the splatter crust formed by lava bubbling only twelve years previously, noting the yellow of fresh sulphur, the red of iron oxidation, the gleam of fools’ gold in the dust, it really wasn’t the time. Even as I took a few pictures with my telephone, the wind was desperately trying to claw the device from my fingers.

After a coffee had got some heat back into me, I called it a day. There was still a hotel to find and an early morning flight to catch. Still, I had been glad to see Etna and that night enjoyed a fine bottle of wine that came from a vineyard situated on the mountain’s flank. Sweetness can indeed come from ice and fire.