A Greek odyssey to remember.

 A Greek odyssey to remember.

We were travelling through the night and had just begun to believe that things could hardly get any worse. We'd enjoyed a memorable holiday and we'd embraced the whole holidaymaking experience when, all of a sudden, things nose dived spectacularly. At no point did we ever panic or just fear the worst because in the light of everything around us, we should have known what to expect. Privately we were bound to come face to face with complications and bureaucratic mumbo jumbo.

My wife, daughter and yours truly had temporarily immersed ourselves delightedly in the wonders that Greece could offer. But we knew we'd have to jump through hoops because the British government had made it abundantly clear that British holidaymakers were just not welcome on Mediterranean. On May 17 they'd implemented a traffic light system which meant that only the most middle class or wealthy could afford a break by a Greek, Spanish, Italian, Cypriot or Turkish beach or hotel. 

There were frequent reminders about the red, amber or green lights indicating which would be the most suitable and not so suitable. What we hadn't bargained on was that the amber light we had chosen for our destination would be fraught with problems from the beginning to the end of our holiday. The truth is of course that had we known that Greece would be so problematic, we would never have bothered in the first place. 

On arrival at a deserted hotel in Kos, we found quite literally what bore an uncanny resemblance to a haunted castle. There were no people, no guests and nothing but an empty swimming pool, a liberal sprinkling of chairs and tables and umbrellas that looked as they were just huddling together for warmth. It was hard to know whether to laugh or cry, our conflicting emotions playing havoc with our genuine sense of disbelief. And so it was that we settled down, packed away our belongings and set out to discover more about the uncharted territories around us, accepting our destiny willingly because this was how things were meant to be. 

Our first day was spent wandering around the volcanic island of Nisyros, a truly blasted landscape of humming craters that sounded like a thousand boiling kettles going off at the same time. Every so often you would hear the most alarming mini explosions that sounded as they'd been detonated to go off every couple of seconds or so. Most tourists are encouraged to climb down the steep rocky terrain which would eventually take you to the epicentre of the island and we were no different. 

Our daughter had no trouble at all negotiating the tricky ground but some of us were gingerly treading down towards a huge expanse of what looked like a concrete rink. Suddenly all you could see were vast tracts of land where nothing seemed to be happening. This had to be the most fascinating day visit to a place that looked forbidding but strangely appealing. Hundreds of tourists were inspecting nothing in particular and just delighted to be on holiday with friends and family. 

The rest of our Greek pilgrimage was spent sunbathing on our own and watching a dear old lady trying desperately to smile behind the poolside bar. She was also responsible for the preparation of breakfast and maintaining our morale. Now then she would gratefully oblige with daily deliveries of eggs, cheese, two pieces of brown toast, small slices of lemon cake and several yogurts for good measure. But all around us was isolation, solitude and privacy, an oasis of calm but no sign of humanity whatsoever. 

Of course the Greek people were models of hospitality and good natured bonhomie, friendly, concerned, sympathetic and always inquiring about our welfare. The man at reception could hardly have been more amiable and when we found a bottle of wine in our bedroom we knew we'd melted their hearts. The wine marked our wedding anniversary, my lovely wife and yours truly were immensely appreciative and then we inspected the rest of a hotel that felt as if it had been looted, ransacked and raided. 

In the far corner of our hotel there were two of those padded chairs which are meant to massage your aching backs, the obligatory pool table and another bar tucked away at the far end of the reception area. Then you could hardly fail to notice what looked like the entertainment area where discos or singers were ready to be let loose. You had to stop for a minute before trying to imagine that eventually hundreds of children and families would fill the floor to bursting point at some point during the summer. 

For the moment Covid 19 has torn the heart out of the Greek tourist industry. The local restaurants were now crying out for the Brits invasion of their glittering sands, those trendy bars that were begging for the presence of teenagers ready to drink the night away in those seething clubs. Sadly, though all you could see were straw coloured scrublands with wispy grasses that had been allowed to grow uncontrollably. In the back streets boisterous motor bikes would roar around corners at breathless speed. It was eerily quiet at times but then hearteningly loud when the bikers screeched into town. 

Then our nightly visits for dinner were illuminated by large groups of the cat and dog community. Almost every evening we were accompanied by every ginger, black and white cat imaginable. They would gather in their small armies, creeping stealthily towards us before sitting up at our table, piercing marble eyes staring intently at us as if privately expecting a lavish feast. So it was that our feline friends persevered with unhesitating tenacity hoping against hope that the human race would feed them.

After occasional trips to the beach, which conveniently backed onto our hotel, we began to turn our thoughts to home. We would be left with memories of Greek haute cuisine, that lovable insistence on providing all the Brits with the almost inevitable chips and everything. For a couple of nights you would request spaghetti bolognese and, in a dramatic departure from the norm, chicken schnitzel that tasted like butter washed down by intermittent carafes of rose wine. 

So now my lovely wife, our daughter and yours truly headed home somewhat dazed by a holiday that we must have known would be unconventional but never believing that the only sound we'd hear for most of it would be a bizarre silence. Now the fun would begin as, for the last time we loaded our suitcases into the back of the taxi's boot and bid a fond farewell to this unspoiled Greek island. 

Pulling into Kos airport, now completely abandoned and looking almost grief stricken, we dragged our suitcases towards the check out.  At the luggage conveyor belt we were met by a stern and annoyingly officious Greek woman who refused to give an inch. Under no circumstances would my family be going anywhere and for a while visions of a summer spent in Kos began to float across our vision. Covid test certificates had to be shown immediately or else. A severe interrogation would have to ensue but thankfully didn't and how grateful we were that this would not be the case. 

After repeated pleas for a swift flight back home to the UK, another taxi driver would be summoned to take us to some remote medical centre. For a moment you thought you'd use your initiative by convincing the Greek air authorities that Homer's Iliad was the finest piece of literature you'd ever read and that Captain Corelli's Mandolin was utterly compelling from first page to last. But this would probably have been regarded as emotional blackmail so we just resigned to ourselves to a night in a bar drinking retsina and admiring the decor. 

Racing towards our first port of call we eagerly anticipated our confirmatory Covid test certificates. You can probably guess the next sequence of events. The said medical centre was shut so here we were in the dark of a Greek night, wondering what on earth the Greeks were thinking of when they thought plate smashing after an evening meal would have been the perfect way to end your repast. So back in the taxi we got, a now increasingly bemused taxi driver putting his foot down before reaching our second medical centre. This time we struck lucky. 

Covid certificates in our hand we sprinted back to the airport by which time midnight was about to strike. Rushing back furiously towards customs and then the checking of the passport and with minutes to go, we ran towards the steps of the plane, hoping against hope that we'd be allowed to finally go home after all the commotion and consternation, the panicky discussions, the pointless protestations. The UK Government had finally relented and we were homeward bound. 

You began to feel sorry for the whole of the tourist industry for the rest of the summer because even they're just as clueless as the holiday revellers  now caught up in the most horrendous middle of a muddled mess. You hoped that those very pleasant restaurant owners would still be inviting their customers into their establishments with whole hearted relish and a permanent smile on their faces. It could be an eventful and highly successful summer for our jolly Brits and the rest of the world. We must hope that things will work out for the best.