I’ve just carried out my first transaction in pounds and pence for over two and a half months, and felt distinctly odd. Especially conversing freely in English with the lady at the till, and hearing strange voices onboard ship. Not foreign tongues, but different accents of English. Not American English or Canadian English or English from someone who learned it as a foreign language, but Mother Tongue type English. I know it will take me all of a day or two for this to wear off, but for now it is a very eerie feeling.

I’m really looking forward to walking up the path to the front door without anyone expecting me back until tomorrow! (I hope someone’s in – that would just take the piss) I also hope that they don’t take it the wrong way. I’ve missed them so much that to come back to a disgruntled family would probably knock me for six.

The really annoying thing is that despite travelling overnight to arrive in the morning to have to the day to talk and stuff, I’m going to arrive home and have to go to bed, because the evening has been so disjointed )bus from Paris Bagnolet at 2200, stop-off mid-France around 0000, at ferry by 0200....), there has been very little time for sleep. I’ll try when we get back on the coach shortly. Due to the time difference, it’s now 0243hrs. Handy, but tiring! According to memory, the bus arrives in Victoria at 0655hrs. I don’t know why it takes four hours to London from Dover, but that’ll be the main sleeping opportunity of the day.
It hasn’t quite dawned on me yet that I’ll be at home later today. It doesn’t seem to fit in my head.

0650hrs: Victoria Coach Station, London
We arrived here in London about an hour ago, and the first coach to Portsmouth doesn’t leave until 9am, so we’ve a couple of hours to kill yet.
I still haven’t contacted anyone at home to let them know I’m coming! I’m bloody knackered and looking forward to being reunited with my bed.
It’s getting stuffy, I’m sticky and on the far side of dirty. There aren’t any showers here, so I’m going to arrive home smelling.

Mmm, great.

It’s been about two and a half months since we sat here last. It’s a startlingly different scene. The fountain in the pool in front of our seats is on, projecting water 10-15 feet into the air. The sound of it could only have added to the tranquillity of the gardens in May. Now it is the only tranquil sound. The gardens are packed with people. Tourists from around the globe, and the odd Parisian attempting to enjoy a book are sharing the same ground.

It’s so busy that a haze of dust hangs over the gardens, and a huge fun fair with the largest Ferris wheel I’ve ever seen has been erected on the side of the gardens farthest form the river. I prefer it as it was.

1930hrs: Banks of the Seine, facing the Eiffel Tower and the bridge between Avenue Winston Churchill and La Palais des Invalides with the huge winged golden horses. Okay?

I thought I’d liked Paris as much as I could last time. I was wrong. This is more a case of love at second sight. The sun is still quite high in the sky, but it feels like sunset. the shadows are long and the light is golden.

Paris seems to welcome us like an old friend, one that remembers us well. It is good to see somewhere that is known to me from this trip, so that it is familiar, but familiar in a personal way. This Paris belongs to me. When I get home tomorrow everything will be familiar, which, oxymoronically, will seem strange. It won’t be personal familiarity – it’s shared by my family and the people I know, so for that personal quality I silently thank Paris.

I can see now one of the differences between Paris and other European cities. The stark differences between the two Tuileries – the Tuileries of May, and the Tuileries of August, depressed me, but Paris has an enduring quality. Whereas other cities are swamped and weighed down by the feet of the multitudinous tourists, they break over Paris like a wave, present only for a time before flowing away...Afterwards, underneath, is still Paris. It cannot be changed by tourism. It caters for it, but it a few more weeks of high season and the fair will be dismantled and the dust will settle.

Rome was vibrant and steeped in history, it was alive and thriving. Athens was a maze of thundering traffic, with all the culture and identity it needed poised gracefully on a rock against the sky for all to see. Madrid sweltered, but it is justifiably its nation’s capital – there wasn’t one single identifiable mark of the evolution of a global culture (over and above the usual McDonald’s and ‘Coke’ adverts). You could crush Madrid and it would bleed Spain. It is Spain through and through. Rabat was a meeting of two cultures, a melting pot that challenged the senses and intrigued my mind.

Paris seems to know that all it needs to do is to be Paris, and everything can only be well. it is the most self-assured and confident city that I’ve been to. It doesn’t threaten – if you are here, then you are a part of Paris. There are no peddlers, no aggressive beggars and no real malevolence – nothing to cultivate a ‘them and us’ mentality on either the visitors’ or the Parisian’s side. It rests easy on the mind.

Perhaps you see in each city how you feel at the time, perhaps a mass of humanity only reflects what you are, so you leave with your memories of the city with how it made you feel as one whole. That would say a lot for my second impression of Paris, and how I have changed in the last few months.

This afternoon we went to the Musée D’Orsay, which I enjoyed immensely. Works of Monet and Degas, Renoir, Cézanne, Van Gogh and countless others, some familiar and others pleasingly new. The D’Orsay used to be a train station, and it makes a magnificent museum. I made new discoveries for myself in the world of art – I enjoyed the temporary exhibitions as much as the standing shows of the greats. I couldn’t have faced the Louvre afterwards though. I had been tired to begin with, then enthused, and then made weary.
Since then we’ve food shopped, and sat both in the Tuileries and here.

Time has passed and the sun will set soon.

Gemma and I have to be at the coach station at Bagnolet by nine, so we’ll have to leave this panorama, our last of the European continent, and travel overnight AGAIN.
Only this time, we’re going home...

It’s gone dark. Sorry.

1055hrs Nice-Ville station

Europe’s a small continent. Gemma and I have just bumped into Nicky and Brian from the ferry from Brindisi to Corfu. Bizarre. They’re bound for Barcelona having come from Cinqueterra.

Last night’s train was not my favourite one so far. We got a reasonable compartment with only four other people, but at certain stops we exchanged one short person for two incredibly tall ones. Great. I slept fitfully – when the train was moving ( a seemingly rare occurrence) it was very fast and consequentially very noisy.

We arrive in Paris at about 7am tomorrow morning. It’ll be Sunday, so we’ll ring Olivier and see if we can dump our bags/crash tomorrow night/have Herve’s flat for the night...I hope so! Tonight will be our last European train ride, and marks the end of my totting up the cost of getting home on my Barclaycard. Is it more than the cost of the Interrail ticket? Let’s see...

Italy first time: Florence-Naples £20, Naples-Brindisi £20

Greece: Patras-Olympia £1.80 (oooooh), Olympia-Patras £1.80, Patras-Athens £2.80, Athens-Patras £2.80, Patras-Brindisi £16, Brindisi-Rome £16.50, Rome-Nice £25.10, Nice-Paris £48.20 (ouch!).

Grand total - £154.80

Cost of Interrail in Spain - £167!

Hmm, that’s close, and on the good side.

1300hrs, A park in Nice

I am, without the faintest shadow of a doubt, exhausted. We’re stopped here for lunch (a more traditionally ‘us’ baguette with cheese (EDAM-type stuff from Rome)) and now we’re going to the beach so that I can crash, Gemma can veg, and we can both try to regain some semblance of normal lack of fatigue. It has been many miles and a few too many night trains and boats since Crete. It hasn’t been especially gruelling – we’ve had particularly unstressful days (apart from in Rome) – but it has meant we’ve had very little sleep. I know that if I sleep a lot today, my rhythms will be finally shot to pieces, I won’t sleep tonight and Paris will be less colourful as a result. Heigh ho.

Nice seems a really, um, pretty town. Just right for relaxing in. Aaaaaah.

1845, Back in Nice-Ville station

We’ve had a doze on the beach (a bit stony, but our roll-mats came to the rescue), I’ve done a little shopping, buying CDs of songs we learned in the mountains, and now Gem’s nipped off for some food for our journey. I only started collecting country/flag patches for my backpack in Greece, but thanks to a shop with other country’s patches, I’m only missing one for Morocco, and I think maybe ‘Au Vieux Campeur’ in Paris might have one. Cool.

Yesterday was a great day. Our intended siesta/repose never materialised and we did lots. After having breakfast at the pension we went to the internet cafe, got some laundry done (gleaming white T-shirt for the homeward journey!) and shopped for lunch.

We went to the Colosseum. A scaffolding-clad amount of brick greeted us from the metro station when it first hove into view, and I had a similar (but more short-lived) reaction to that at the Parthenon, but about 80% of it wasn’t under scaffold, so it was bearable. After the four of us (still us, Daena and Eric) had waded through the custom gladiators (“Can I kill you?”), we went inside. It was impressive. It must have been immense. After a brief stroll around we took a free tour and I was astounded at the amount of death, torture and destruction that took place there throughout its history.

To inaugurate the place, there were 100 days of ‘games’ with (on average) one human or animal death every thirty minutes in that time. It was horrifying, but involving. It was bakingly hot – when there were 80,000 people in there it must’ve been like an oven.

After that we went back to the hostel, cooked and ate dinner – pasta, tuna, sweetcorn with melted cheese, and a glorious bottle of Chianti ’97, courtesy of Eric.

The night tour took in the Spanish Steps, the Trevi fountain ( absolutely out of this world – I threw 3 coins in – I’ll come back to Rome, fall in love in Rome, and the third coin is so you have great sex with the person you fall in love with. Apparently.), the Pantheon and other spots of interest.

The front of St. Peter’s cathedral, the epic frontispiece of The Vatican, centre of the Roman Catholic world and the Pope’s playroom, is totally covered in scaffold. They’re cleaning it for the year 2000 Roman Catholic Jubilee AAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHH!

1500hrs –Same place.

Last night on the tour, there was wine (‘mother’ bottles – 5 litres!) and gelati (‘as big as your head’). A fantastic combination. Our tour ticket was good for 5 scoops of gelati, from a shop that had won Italy’s ‘Golden Spoon’ ( a sort of ice-cream Oscar) three years in a row. I had, in this order: Nutella, Giacuia, Coconut, Chocolate and Yoghurt. It was heavenly. Brilliant.

Afterwards, I had to shake the owner’s hand!

Also on the tour ( I got a bit rushed above) we saw the Pantheon and a couple of famous Piazzas – dei Fiori and others. It was really fun, and well worth the £.20,000!

After some serious platform hogging and nifty footwork getting on, we got a whole compartment on the train. The four of us pulled the seats out to form weird bed-like things (only not) and got at least 3-4 hours sleep.

We arrived in Rome at 'Roma Tibertina' at about 0730ish, missed the 0740 to Roma Termini and caught the 0803 instead. We’re staying at the Pension Alessandra – a little pricey at £.30 000 a night, but it’s only for one night, and we'll be on our way tomorrow evening once more.

By the time we arrived here I stank. Cutting no corners, pulling no punches, I stank. I’ve just had my first shower in a few days, and despite being dog-tired (couple of cups of coffee at the hostel helped – I knew it would be worth carrying the tea and coffee from St. Andeol around!) I feel great. we’re going to go and see the Colosseum and the Trevi fountain today (hurrah!) and maybe a tour later!

It’s hot, breezy, and sedate. I’ve had a dip in the pool, done some sunbathing and just had lunch on deck. We’re travelling ‘Deck Class’, but we might as well be on a cruise.

We’ll be arriving in Brindisi...at some point, probably later today, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s a gorgeous day. We met up with a Canadian girl (tanned, short, with headscarf – there’s probably a mould churning them out somewhere) – Daena – last night in Patras before catching this ferry. She’s cool.
Gemma and I slept on deck, just below the mast.

I awoke to a pink sky, pulled myself up to my elbows and caught the sunrise full in the face. We were docked somewhere, and the sun broke out through the trees on the hills surrounding the harbour.

Yesterday we arrived in Athens, ate brekkie at the Inn and caught the 3-hour express to Patras at 12. From Patras to Athens, our ‘5-hour’ journey took 7½, and yesterday’s ‘3-hour’ took 4½. I was a bit annoyed, but there’s no pace, no urgency in Greece, just a surefooted certainty that nothing really matters. Relax! It’s a nice day.

Our boat turned out to be at ten o’clock, so there wasn’t any rush anyway. We
ate moussaka in the square, bought a paper and went to a supermarket to stock up for the journey. I slept quite well and have enjoyed just lolling around chatting so far today. It looks like we’ll be going to Rome after all, if we want to get to Paris, Rome is a good starting point. Whether or not we’ll spend a night there is yet to be decided, but we’ll definitely be spending at least a day there. Good stuff! I want to see the Colosseum and the Trevi Fountain, and Gemma wants to see the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel. I’m not crazy to go there, but it does seem pretty bad to go and not see the Vatican. We’ll see.

We’ve certainly covered a fair few miles since Monday evening! I haven’t taken my contact lenses out since Monday morning, and they’re definitely starting to feel a bit manky. I know that if I do take them out, I’ll go to sleep. Not necessarily a bad thing, but I don’t know when we’re due into Brindisi. Heigh ho.

2100hrs, Train station, Brindisi.
The boat pulled into Brindisi at about three, and as a group, Gemma, Daena, Eric and I yomped up to the train station, got some money, bought some food for the journey and Rome. I am definitely feeling tired now. If we get seats on the train, I am out for the count.

Just passing through Athens, and due to several extremely funny looks from cafe and restaurant proprietors when I asked if their cheese pies are the type you have with sugar, we’re in our Athens haunt, just for breakfast.
Yesterday evening we bunked down in one of the Pullman seat rooms and I got the best night’s sleep since Athens last time. Yesterday morning we got up early and had breakfast in the hostel before heading out to Knossos.
It was really cool to be round Dave again, reminiscing, cowering with fear as we uncovered each other’s cringe-worthy stuff from the past...cool.

I remember Knossos as being a lot more enjoyable when I came with my family at the age of nine. It was impressive and haunting, but it was a faint echo under the hundreds upon hundreds of tourists milling round in hordes.
The Royal Quarters and the great staircase were closed for restoration, which might have had quite a lot to do with it, but after about an hour, we felt like we’d done all we could legally do. The baking sun was telling on us. A search through all the gift shops for another key ring like my parents’ old one that I lost was fruitless (to add to the fruitless searches in Hania and Iraklion), so I came to the conclusion that they’d stopped making them. Damn.

We’re going to do a spot of shopping in a mo, before going to catch the train to Patras.

Tomorrow morning, all being well, we’ll be in Italy again.
Yesterday afternoon we walked out along the harbour wall in Heraklion, ate lunch and generally wandered about. We went with Dave to meet his parents after they’d dropped Jenny and Ari off at the airport and said goodbye. He’ll be back in the UK by this evening. That seems very weird.

After arriving in Heraklion, we managed to get into the archaeological museum, where most of the finds from Knossos are, including the genuine frieze remains, for free. Dave and Gemma had their student ID, me with an Italian police report stating that I’d had my student ID stolen...same thing at Knossos!

1250hrs - Train to Patras.

Long walk from Omonia to the train station, and after a pedantic seat-swapping fiasco, we’re on our way back to Italy.
Coming back this way gives me the opportunity to appreciate the views in a way I couldn’t when I was talking to Mikas on the way to Athens. Sea views of massed chemical tankers, moving onto sea framed by hilly islands covered with low, olive-green scrub. Cliff-top rails, and a spectacular drop, secluded coves and fishing villages in white.

A cacophony of revving moped engines, car horns and a mixture of firecrackers and pistol fire has surrounded our ferry for the last half hour. A newlywed couple are boarding the ferry opposite and there is a crowd amassed in what we’re learning to be true Greek style. The sun is going down, the boarding is complete- the foot passengers ramp is down. A group of young men race to the top of a platform on the ramp with a moped held aloft between the four of them, the engine held at full throttle, waving illuminously coloured flares with their free hands. The noise is almost deafening as the lines are being cast off at the stern. More flares are lit and horns sounded as the ship gets underway.
It’s not a wedding I’ve just asked a frantic-looking guy in ship’s uniform what’s going on, and he explained that the men of an age of Iraklion are being taken into the army for national service. In answer to the cars, all the ships in harbour sound their whistles and horns...WOW the noise is impressive – I can feel it in my chest. The noise is echoing and resounding round the bay and the whole city as the other ferry pulls out ahead of us. The decks of the other ferry- the ‘King Minos’ are packed with waving figures. For us, the opposite is true, and those who would wish us well are far away.

We’re turning around and heading for home.

But the crowds are massed for us as well. They’re there because they know what it is to be away from home, and they’re there as a testament to that feeling. They know what it’s like to miss someone, to be missed. Goodbye chaps, thanks for the send off.

2010hrs – North of Crete

Ari and Jenny were due to fly out of Iraklion airport just as we pulled away from the harbour. There was only one plane as we cast off, so Gemma and I said a silent goodbye and good luck to them.
Love, and do what you like.

There is an air of beginnings surrounding the end of our travelling. Ari and Jenny are flying off on their honeymoon as a married couple, hundreds of men setting off on their national service, and we are turning home. New lives.
For the first time, I feel like a traveller.

The colour of the sea and the light in the haze of the mountains, the breeze, the sunset. All of this is a journey. All of it is part of me, of everyone who witnesses it. I have travelled. It doesn’t matter how cheaply, whether in youth hostels or ferry cabins, in hotels or by plane. I have travelled to travel. To experience, to see, to meet people and to learn. I feel now how reading Jules Verne made me feel when I was younger. Excited, thrilled, revelling in the colours, the smells and the feel of the world around me.

It’s all so beautiful.

The wedding was last night. It was the first wedding I have ever been to, and very different to what I was expecting. On Friday we rose late, went into the town, had a look round, came back, slept and went for a swim before eating a la Grec at Palazzo on the harbour. Lazy days...

Yesterday we rose late (again!) and went into town (to get out of the way of all the preparations; we are staying in the house of the bride’s family, after all...) and I bought some presents, postcards etc. We came back too early to get ready, played Goldeneye until we could get ready without feeling stupid. With Dave wearing a suit and Gemma looking disturbingly feminine after all these weeks in shorts and her light canvas trousers, and with me feeling rather wrong in a shirt and slacks after travelling for so long, we strolled to the church. We were still early.

The church was unusual. The altar was in the centre of the church, and when Ari and Jenny arrived, the congregation surrounded it and them. Ari and Jenny met each other outside the church and went in together. Quite a lot of the guests stayed outside for the first part of the ceremony – it was very hot in there. The church was very bright, lit by chandeliers, and decorated with religious icons. Gemma, Dave and myself, surrounded as we were by jubilant Greeks, found ourselves clustered unintentionally underneath St. George.
Another thing that differed a lot from my expectations was that everyone, and I mean everyone, talked. The guests, the bride’s parents, the grooms family, and even Ari and Jenny had a bit of a natter whilst the ceremony was in progress. Two of the three priests shared a joke while the third was in mid-chant. It was all very relaxed, which while good, seemed a little too casual to me.
The priests sang and chanted, harmonising beautifully in places, and blessed the couple before they kissed a large silver-bound bible with icons inlaid on the cover. After more singing, the priests laid two silver-ring like coronets joined by a ribbon of white, on Jenny and Ari’s heads. They were then given wine from the same glass. As the priest spoke to them, not from a book but seemingly in his own words, Jenny suddenly and without warning stamped heavily on Ari’s foot, and he winced. Everyone else thought this was great, and there was laughter and a light smattering of applause. This, according to Dave’s Aunt, the mother of the bride, this was Jenny’s defiant (but fast becoming a modern tradition) reaction to the priest’s advice that the woman should fear the man!
Some more of the priests’ lilting song, and the priests took each others hands and led the bride and groom around the altar three times while we all threw rice and confetti. After shaking hands and accepting everyone’s congratulations, the couple came out of the church under a hand-held tunnel of tennis racquets – Ari is an instructor.

After driving out to the hotel for the reception, we were disturbed to note that Dave’s, Gemma’s and my names were the only ones in English – not just on our table, but anywhere! Thankfully the people we were sat with spoke English, but only rarely.

David waxed lyrical on the potency of the Svakian home-made wine whilst we ate (Oh my God the food here is gorgeous!), so I had none whatsoever and stuck to the Cretan white bottled stuff. Wise move as it turned out –very unusual for me where alcohol is involved. Ah- the food.

We started off with bread and prawns, moved on to cheese and spinach pastries with meatballs and rice in olive leaves. next came the meat - the tenderest beef I have ever eaten, accompanied by rice which had been boiled in the meat juices – superb. Followed by more meat, potatoes and then a whole table of Greek desserts so tempting it made me want to cry that I’d already eaten my fill. I had a little of everything anyway. Emmental (or Greek equivalent) with honey, a sort of shredded wheat biscuit with spiced honey, yoghurt...with honey, peach slices in very thick sweet stuff (not honey), cake, and a sort of sweet fried pastry ball.
I had an amazing evening.

We danced the ‘ten e-leven!’ dance, and were at a distinct advantage because hardly any of the Greek people knew it at all, so we ACTUALLY LOOKED LIKE WE KNEW WHAT WE WERE DOING. Blimey.

David had been to a Svakian wedding in the hills the Saturday before, where they all fired their guns into the air. Jenny and Ari expressly asked that people didn’t do this, a they weren’t in the hills that night, and it was a residential area, and also they didn’t want guns to be involved in their wedding. There was laughter, and the father of the bride from the previous wedding loosed off three shots from a pistol into the sky.

Needless to say I wasn’t expecting any of this – just a small shock! The last time I heard gunfire was when I was at Newtown range on the Island, with the Air Cadets.

1420: Our coach has been going for about 2 hours now, and we haven’t lost sight of the sea for more than a few minutes in that time. The sienna hills and the bright blue sea – we’re skirting a bay where a schooner is anchored. When we do go away from the coast, there are mountains through the haze inland. It’s a beautiful day.

I think Dave is feeling slightly more human again. He didn’t eat much last night, and the Svakian wine he warned us away from got the better of him. He was a bit ill. Mind you, I was far from sober – I managed to smash a glass on the sink in the upstairs flat, smashing the corner of the sink into pieces in the process. Whoops.

I don’t think any of us have hangovers, which is lucky considering the coach ride is three hours long! We’ll stay in the hostel this evening and go to Knossos tomorrow, and catch the ferry to Piraeus tomorrow night.

Yesterday evening we went out in Hania and were enticed into ‘Bar Klik’ with the promise of free drinks and then buy-one get-one free. We had a cool time, drank too much, and Dave and Gemma kissed. Aaah. Really happy actually – they really suit each other.
Fingers crossed, eh?

Today we went to Limonoupolis, a huge water park, which was fantastic fun. More holidayish holidays than we’ve been used to, and it’s a great change. It’s great to see Dave again, and I’m really looking forward to the wedding. Gemma and I attempted to learn the steps to an apparently compulsory dance from Jenny, the bride, and hopefully were sufficiently bad to plead exemption on Saturday night. (Masses of seriously injured guests are likely to put a bit of a downer on proceedings...).

We’re planning a night in Iraklion to see Knossos (it’s about a 3 hour journey there and back) after the wedding – we’re leaving on Monday evening, so we may catch the ferry from there.

We had souvlaki for dinner this evening – like the ones we had in Athens, but not as nice – thicker bread, no paprika and small pieces of meat rather than the fried shish-kebab chunks. I learned that the white sauce stuff is actually yoghurt. They have yoghurt with everything out here.

In retrospect, then, the sauce in the souvlaki in Athens must have been some sort of garlic yoghurt, which is a bit too surreal a consideration for this small a wee small hour. ‘Night.

Beeeach.
Sunny, fish in the sea, ubiquitous dzee-dzee-kahs rasping in the trees, and cheeringly stupid conversation.

We’re in Crete at last, and it looks like it’s going to be cool. We’re going to be here for the breaking in of the marital bed this evening...sounds interesting...

The ferry from Piraeus was no problem – we slept on deck, and I watched the sunset, and later the moonset, and the stars, and the people in the ship’s disco/bar, which was funny.

Dave and his Dad picked us up from the ferry at ludicrous o’clock in the morning as the sun was coming up, in fact, and took us to a cafe in Hania town for breakfast. The cafe was a speciality cafe, said Dave’s Dad, that did something unique to Crete. We sat down, and Dave’s Dad ordered four coffees and, then, just four. We watched as the man went behind a tiny counter, lifted out a large dish which seemed to be full of a pastry of some kind. He sliced four pieces out, and brought them over.

“It’s kind of a cheese pastry, but filled with milk whey. Here, have some sugar.”
After the initial suspicions of having the piss taken, Dave’s Dad pointed out that it was 6am, and that no serious piss-taking could happen until at least nine. It was delightful. So unusual, the texture of the whey, the pastry and the sugar was feather-light on your tongue but filled you up.

So after cheese pastry with sugar for breakfast, and after sleeping out on the deck of an overnight ferry on the Mediterranean, here we are...

Yesterday on the train we met Makis, who told us to regard the Parthenon as ours, as a European monument, not Greek. I am having difficulty. It was built before there were countries, according to Makis (he was scarily intense, so I kept quiet about the city state of Athens) and so was built not to the glory of Greece, but of the goddess Athene. This and Stonehenge, he opined, were the only two true European monuments.

I was so excited about seeing the Parthenon for the first time that when I raised my eyes to it, clad two sides with scaffolding and with a crane protruding from the top (not a ubiquitous crane, but a seemingly malicious one), that I was shaking. I don’t think I’ve been so...pissed off in my life. (Pissed off is the only fitting description, sorry.) They’re cleaning it. Thankfully the two side I couldn’t see are free of scaffold (where I’m sitting now) and are as beautiful as I imagined. It is magnificent. The precision involved must have been phenomenal. The base is not flat – it’s curved to counteract any non-aesthetic optical illusions, and the pillars taper toward the top – in a curve – and the overall effect is of perfect straightness (to the not-too-enquiring eye) and balance. The stone is not white, it is a golden cream. I had no idea that the Acropolis has had such a turbulent history. One thing that pleases me about all of the restoration, cleaning, replacement and rebuilding in places, which seems to me rather...not blasphemous, but close, is how part of one of the buildings was destroyed. During the Turko-Venetian war (when the Turks used the Acropolis as a fortress), the Turks kept their gunpowder in the Propylea (entrance palace). It was struck by lightning, destroying one wing. Nice shot, Zeus!

The museum displays models of the portico marbles, which were removed by Lord Elgin in 1801 and are in the British museum - London. Damn.
The pollution of Athens is frightening– acid rain is damaging the buildings, so all of the statues are in the museum. In the morning when we were up here, the view was clear. It’s now slowly blurring over and has taken a greyish tinge. In spite of this, the view of Athens’ sprawl is impressive.

We bumped into a familiar American couple – after spotting them at Brindisi, Corfu, Patras (on our second time, just passing through) and here, are worth a mention!

Our hotel, the Student and Travellers’ Inn, is five minutes walk from the Acropolis, and okay value at 3000 drachmae, but worth it for the position! It seems brighter and cleaner than Napoli, despite pollution.

1835hrs: Café, Piraeus.

There was also a great place just down the road from the Inn that sold Souvlaki (like shish kebabs, but Greek and nicer) in pitta bread, rolled up with tomato, onion and a garlic salad dressing. A sprinkle of salt and paprika, and the pitta bread rolled into a cone, and the ingredients were transformed into the ultimate snack food. They were GORGEOUS. We had two each last night for dinner (great value at around 400dr) – one chicken one, one pork, and one as a farewell to Athens snack as we left the Inn. If the guy that runs it ever thinks about expansion, McDonald’s had better watch out. (Hurrah!)
(Oh – I’ve made a point of not going into McDonald’s through Italy, and haven’t yet in Greece – I think I’ll keep it that way!)

Yesterday we breakfasted on bread and honey before seeing the ruins, and we said goodbye after touring the museum with the remains of the porticos from the temple of Zeus.
Today has been a flurry of potential destinations. First Delphi, Crete, now Athens, where we’re DEFINITELY going now. We’re going to see the Acropolis tomorrow and go to Crete in the evening.

The ruined temple of Zeus where I am sitting, was the site of a wonder of the world. Pheidias’ chryselephantine statue of Zeus, made of ivory and gold, was large enough to hold a human figure in its hand. The pillars must have been enormous – on one side of the temple, the sections of pillars lie as if someone had only just pushed them over, and this temple dates from 460BC. They are really wide, too. One pillar section, resting on its side, was wider than I am tall – over 6’2”. Fragments of mosaic remain, grass grows where worshippers would once have supplanted themselves in front of the wondrous spectacle of the Lord of the Gods of the Greek world.

2210 – Hostel, Olympia

The not-so-hot drawing opposite is of the Stadium, where the races were run. Walking down the course, everything seems to focus you on the track. When Gemma had sat down, I went back to the marble starting line, removed my shoes and socks and took off across the baked clay in just my shorts (as close to the Hellenic dress as I could legally go). Running there felt right – not like the courses at school that called out be lain on, or where it just seemed like too much effort. The entire focus is on the track, and the track is your focus when you run. Despite the stones and not-quite feet friendly surface, it felt fantastic. I started at a typical ‘lumbering along’ type pace, and that felt wrong – this track pulls you to your fastest. I swear I was getting quicker and quicker the whole time I was running - from the start to the finish and back. I ran on my own, so I had no way of judging my speed (not being particularly athletic) but I felt like the wind.

Yesterday after we said goodbye to Marian and Alexandra we caught the train to Pyrgos, where during our hour-long crossover, we met Angela, Judith and Baika from Holland, and stuck with them on the train to Olympia. We got a room, the five of us here in the hostel (1700 drachmae). When we were coming into Olympia, we could see a wall of dark cloud, but nothing prepared us for the absolute deluge and earth-shaking thunder that greeted us off the train. We ran into the station until it relented, the entire complement of passengers from the train, so it was a touch crowded, wincing with every explosion of sound. Helpfully, a sheltering taxi-driver told us the story of how three months ago a 25-year-old man got struck and killed by a lightning. He also thought that the government knew everything that was said on mobile phones, and-he leaned closer for this bit – that’s why this guy was killed...hmmm. He must have picked up my misgivings, so he explained; everyone else under the tree was fine, but he had a mobile phone, so the lightning went for him. On the orders of the government, apparently. Seems logical...

After the rain, Gemma slept (we were both exhausted from the ferry) but I was enjoying the Dutch girls’ company (ahem) and so we went for a walk round the souvenir shops and pottery shops, jewellers...I must admit the old ‘shopping with women’ weariness came over me, but learning a few halting words in Dutch (very halting the pronunciation is horrendously difficult-like Australian/Scots/German – I spent 5 minutes on the first syllable of ‘jeugdherberg’ – youth hostel!) and doing a bit of window shopping myself made it easier.

In the evening we ate at the Taverna Apollon which was great – I had Moussaka, Greek Salad and melon. We got given a free bottle of retsina on the house! It was a good meal, and cheap at 1550 drachmae. From there we went on to try and find a bar and ended up having a free rum and coke in a club before discovering the bar prices and promptly leaving! We enjoyed a can of Amstel in the town square ‘til 1am.

Urgh. The 3 ½ hour ferry was terrible. That ‘fresh breeze’, once out on the sea, made the catamaran roll and pitch like a mad thing. I was sick, the first time I can remember ever having travel sickness of any kind, but felt instantly better, and to my own surprise, fell asleep almost straight away. Gruelling would be a good word. As soon a we rounded the island of Corfu, the wind dropped and the sea was calmer, thank god.

At Corfu itself, we were met with a barrage of people pushing places to stay –The Pink Palace that we’d heard so much about, (much touted as a haze of beach, pool, sex and alcohol – tempting, but too pricey at about £10 a night...!), camping places and stuff.

There was a chap telling us, in no uncertain terms, to get the hell out of the terminal, really aggressively. Not, we learned, through generally loathing the sight of backpackers, or xenophobia, but for the more socially acceptable reason that there was a bomb warning on the building.

Supposedly Albanian in origin (everyone more or less assumed that it was), a telephone call had alerted the police, and they had evacuated the terminal. So naturally, the logical place to dump a load of backpackers off a ferry, in a giant harbour with moorings every hundred yards, is right smack bang (sorry) outside the only building in the immediate area that’s likely to go skywards any second.
It was a false alarm.

Our overnight ferry fare to get here to Patras cost a ‘NEVER TRUST A GREEK IN A TRAVEL OFFICE’ 5800drachmae = £11.
The ship was the ‘Daedalus’, which I took as a good sign. We’re with a couple of girls – Marianne, who is Portuguese, and Alexandra, who is Columbian. They’re really great fun, and good to talk to – we met them in Brindisi, and they’re coming with us to Olympia today.

Anyway, when we got on board the Daedalus, we were rushed unceremoniously upstairs to the upper decks, which were romantically open to the night sky, and rather less romantically open to the funnel smoke. I would have liked to have slept under the stars, but the smoke was bad, so we went below decks to a room with aircraft-like chairs, where I rolled out my roll mat, got out my pillow and sleeping bag liner and slept quite well for about five hours. I managed to get on deck for the sunrise – it was beautiful. The mountains of the Pelopennese through the haze, Patras coming into view, and everything bathed in pink and orange light.

We’re catching the train to Olympia at 1050hrs.

We’ve just been sat here, outside a cafe on the harbour in Patras, in Greece, none of us speak Greek, and yet we’ve just been offered a copy of Watchtower magazine by some Jehovah’s witnesses. It’s a crazy world.