Living at the lake. Diaries continued (part 10)

None of the family spoke any English, so I was delegated to serve the tourists. I enjoyed the work. Although it was hard, it was varied and we all worked together as a family, pulling our weight together and working the same long hours. I soon slipped into a routine and didn’t have time to dwell on anything else. I would sometimes watch television in the evenings with George after the girls had gone to bed.  George was very shy and we rarely spoke but it seemed to be a friendly silence between us and as my Greek improved we gradually conversed more.

The family was very kind to me. On one occasion when I had gone to do some shopping with Michalis, on returning I found chocolates and biscuits in my bag that I hadn’t bought and looking up saw a big grin on his face. I had experienced the famous Cretan hospitality many times before and I was happy to find it applied to the workers too, though I believe I was very lucky working with this particular family.

In the mornings as I was tidying the outside seating area and wiping the tables down, I would see George going off on his tractor to feed the animals and later returning, only to vanish into a small shed from where I could hear strange sounds. I wondered what he was doing until one day I realized it contained a machine for peeling potatoes.

I woke one morning to the soft pitter- patter of rain. On going down to the kitchen I could find no sign of life so I helped myself to coffee, bread and cheese, my regular breakfast, and then began to make what preparations I could for the coming day. Obviously in this weather we were not going to be busy but we might get a few locals and a smattering of hardy tourists.

After a while Chrysoula and George appeared both soaking wet and carrying large pails. They had been out collecting snails.

“When it rains,” explained Chrysoula “the snails come out of hibernation and we collect them to eat. First we put then in a box or container for a few days and feed them on flour or dry macaroni. This cleans their system and so, afterwards, we can cook and eat them. Mother will show you how another day, if you are interested.” I wasn’t sure that I really wanted to know.

At lunchtime we had a party of workmen in on their lunch break. They were working on some building near by and called in quite often, one of their favourite meals was liver, tossed in flour, and fried with oregano and red wine. One of them, a young man of about twenty five began to chat too me, asking me out. This boosted my morale no end, even when he told me his name. I couldn’t help thinking of Chris and how, when next we spoke on the phone we would giggle together. Imagine being asked out for a date by someone named Spartacus!

The weeks passed

Sundays were always very busy. It was inevitably an early start and a late finish, racing to and fro between the tables, making up bills, cleaning, wiping, and doing all the usual jobs at twice the usual speed.

One Sunday morning in June it suddenly began to rain. Chrysoula and I were hurriedly bringing in chairs from outside into the covered area. There was no sign of Eugenia or Athena. Still asleep we assumed. Still asleep we assumed. Suddenly we heard a yell and a loud crash.
“What was that?” cried Chrysoula as we rushed in the direction of the noise. “Oh my god, no!” Chrysoula began to weep as we saw her father spread-eagled on the floor and a large hole in the roof. He had been doing some work on the roof and had fallen through, hitting tables and chairs on the way down. Near where he had fallen I could see the long metal souvlaki skewers used for roasting whole lambs. They were pointing upwards. I shuddered to think what the outcome would have been if he had fallen just a few feet over to the left.

“Father, FATHER!” by this time the rest of the family were arriving on the scene. The girls immediately went into hysterics and I must admit that I felt like doing the same. George raced over to his father and spoke.

“He’s alive.” Relief washed over us. “We must get him to the hospital quickly, I’ll get the van.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.“Surely you shouldn’t try to move him?” I said. George looked up from where he and Yianni were lifting Michalis.

“There are no ambulances near here” he told me, his eyes full of tears “we have no choice.” Chrysoula had calmed down by this time and was now trying to comfort her mother.

“What happened?” she asked “What was he doing on the roof anyway?”

Poppy was still sobbing. “There was a leak, water was coming in.” She dabbed at her eyes. “He went to try to fix it. Oh! What are we going to do?” Athena fetched her mothers coat and bundled her into the van to accompany her husband to the hospital. “Nothing we can do now, except wait” said Chrysoula, mopping her eyes as we watched the van bump away along the rough lane.

Being Sunday we had to try to work as if nothing had happened, with three people short, we were kept busy with no time to think. The next thing we knew it was evening and the phone was ringing. It was Poppy calling from the hospital.

“They think he’s going to be alright” she told us with evident relief. “But he will not be able to move around for sometime, he has damaged his spine and must lie flat.”

Poppy had to stay in the hospital with him, to feed him and do all the things I had taken for granted the nurses would do. Not so, the system here in Greece is quite different and they would only give medication and carry out routine medical practices, no nursing as I knew it. A member of the family had to stay and do that. Fortunately Michalis had a slow but uneventful recovery. When he was allowed out of hospital he had a bed put up in the taverna from where he could hold court and supervise the proceedings until he was back on his feet….

Finding work - my diary (part 8)

Easter Monday dawned bright and fair but the wind was coming from the north and it was quite chilly. “I don’t need to eat for a week.” I told myself. I decided to walk off some of the excesses of the day before, and set out  up the hill towards Kalamitsi. On the way I was passed by a moped, the rider had a small black and white dog on his knee. I recognized the rider as Alkiviadis, a regular patron of the Kalamitsi cafenions with his little dog, ‘Carnation’. Although it seemed rather dangerous to have a dog on the bike, I had previously seen whole families, father mother, two children and dog riding on a single moped so I was not unduly concerned.

Having stopped for a short time at Georgia’s, drinking a gazoza and wishing her a Happy Easter, I continued on to the village.

"Christo's" Kafenion Kalamitsi

I found only a few people in the village kafenion, including “Alki’ and Carnation.

 I chatted for a little while with Dimitris a nephew of Christos and Kostas. He was about nine years old and rather shy to begin with, but then began to tell me about his pets and offered me a piece of chocolate. After a short rest I continued my walk, down the hill on the other side of the village to Vrysses and along the back road to Georgioupolis. 

It was rather a luxury to stay in my own room that evening and enjoy the solitude. I decided the time had come to start looking seriously for work, even though it was a little early in the season as yet. 

Accordingly, the next day found me doing the rounds of the village asking about work. The tavernas were beginning to be spruced up ready for the summer but most were not open yet. One or two people told me there would be work in a few weeks, when the tourist season was underway properly but not immediately. One offer came from the cheerful chef in ‘Zorbas’ where I had eaten so many times in the past. I discovered he was named Manusos and came from a village in the mountains called Embrosneros, 

Having spent the morning looking for work I called into Tito’s cafeteria -the one with the Gorgon- and ordered a toasted sandwich, it arrived hot and aromatic with the smell of  toasted sesame seeds which coated the outside. I ate half then and saved the rest for later. Until I had work I had to be careful about  what I spent. I discovered that Tito, the eldest son, was home that week on leave from his national service in the army. 

After my lunch I decided to walk down to the cantina on the beach and ask about work there as they were setting up their umbrellas for the summer. It was slightly unfortunate that their sign which should have said ‘Cretan club’ was spelt ‘Cretin club’! I decided not to tell them and spoil the treat for all the tourists who loved to tell tales of the funny mistakes they had seen.

Fishing off the beach

I perched on a bar stool and explained my mission. They already had hired workers for the summer  so, when Yiannis, a local lad, who was also sitting at the bar, suggested to me that I might like to work at a taverna at Kournas Lake, where he helped out every Sunday, I was only too delighted to agree. Yiannis promised he would put in a good word for me with the boss and let me know the outcome.

I had known Yiannis since my first holiday when he had bummed a fiver off me and never repaid me; he was charming with long hair and classic good looks and had a good command of English. I was impervious to his charms -and he knew it -and we had settled into an easy friendship, he would often ask me to find a way to introduce him to a nice looking tourist, which I was rather embarrassing.

The following morning found Yiannis looking for me to take me to meet his boss at the lake. A new phase of my life on Crete was about to begin….

I arrived at the lake to begin work early one Wednesday morning. It had already been agreed that I would work alongside the family and, as well as my wage, I would be given a room and board. This was a good opportunity for me to save some money and also to improve my Greek as no-one here spoke much English.

The taverna was situated down a sloping path close to the water and consisted of a large room with an open fireplace, a partly covered seating area outside and another outdoor area near to the water’s edge. The kitchen was tiny and poorly equipped and there was another small area housing the charcoal grill and chip fryer. By the open hearth inside was a stuffed swan and a stuffed eagle, both looking very moth- eaten. Through a door at the far end were the sleeping quarters for the family, one medium size bedroom and a bathroom which also contained various large storage barrels for wine and oil. How did they manage? I didn’t like to ask.

Up above the taverna were half a dozen rooms for rent. The father, Michalis, introduced me to the rest of his family. He was a short grizzled man of about fifty five with a wide smile and a very loud voice, rather alarming at first until I realized that it was normal for him. His wife, Poppy, was quiet and rather in awe of her husband. She came from the mountain village of Asi Gonia which had been a stronghold for the resistance during the war. The rest of the family consisted of Maria, the married daughter, wife of Manolis who looked after the pedalos on the lake, they had two children; Yianni eight, and baby Maria, two years old. Next was George, twenty five, who was rather shy and rather tubby. His job cooking the meat and frying the chips did not help him to stick to a sensible diet for very long. Away from the taverna he also had to help his father with the farm work as they had land and animals.

There were three unmarried daughters. Chrysoula, the eldest, who with her pale skin and long dark hair looked more like an Irish colleen than a Cretan girl. She was very hard working and was always on the go. Eugenia was in her last year at school studying for exams, and bringing up the rear, was Athena, twelve years old and at that rather gangly stage between girl and woman.

I was shown to my room and made to feel welcome. I was allocated the smallest of the rooms usually offered to tourists. At least I had my own en-suite bathroom this time, such as it was.

As I looked around I saw it had been used as a store room. It still contained a sack of raisins and one of peanuts. It had twin beds and a wardrobe but no drawer space. A sliding door led out onto the balcony that ran the length of the upper floor.

After unpacking my bags I walked down to the waters edge with Yianni, who had not only helped me find the job but had also transported my bags to my new summer home.

“The lake used to be called Corissia,” he remarked “after the lost village.”

“What lost village?” I asked, my curiosity aroused.

“Don’t you know the legend of the lake?” he sounded surprised “Well the legend of the lake tells of a village where lived a beautiful maiden with long golden hair and pale skin. She would spend hours sitting on a rock combing her long silky locks. One day her own father became enamoured of her and unable to restrain himself, took her maidenhood. The girl wept so much that the valley was filled with her tears and the village drowned in what became the lake. It is said that on certain days you can see the maiden in the lake still brushing her beautiful hair.”

“Poor girl, what a sad story.” Yiannis looked at me and laughed

“She sounds like a lazy cow to me,” he muttered “sitting on a rock all day combing her hair.”

“Rather like you then” I teased him  (He had long dark hair and rather prided himself on his appearance). He threw me a dark look and then grinned,

“You could be right.” He admitted.

My first morning I was up and ready to start work bright and early. The sun was glancing off the still waters of the lake, disturbed only by a family of geese out for their morning constitutional.

I had visited to the lake as a tourist several times; indeed I had been to this very taverna on my first visit here with Chris and Ian. I remembered how we had watched Michalis boiling up something unspeakable in an old black cauldron and later when it was time to leave we could find no transport back and ended up in an old truck, sitting on kitchen chairs which skidded around the inside as the driver swung around the corners.

On early summer mornings the lake is flat, calm, reflecting the mountains above it like a giant mirror. On winter days it can be grey and forbidding, and can even be whipped up to a mass of white topped waves by the winds of a spring storm. I  learned that it is the only natural freshwater lake on the island. Surrounded on three sides by mountains it is separated from the sea by a flat plain. Legend has it that it is bottomless. On dark winter days it would be easy to imagine a monster lurking in its depths. There are rumours of an underground river that leads from the lake to the sea.

 At one end there is a dark circular area known as ‘The eye of the lake’ where there is an underground spring. It can be quite dangerous near ‘the eye’ due to the currents swirling around it. The lake is also fed by melting snow waters but as the main sources are underground springs it is very pleasant for swimming and not cold, as long as one doesn’t mind sharing the water with turtles, fish, and water snakes!

I ate a piece of cheese and some warm crusty bread and drank a small Greek coffee, as Chrysoula explained what she wanted me to do.

The first job of the day was to sweep, tidy, wipe and prepare the tables for customers then I was to help in the kitchen making salads, cutting bread and of course the inevitable washing up. Shades of my years working in catering in England, but here was rather different. The whole atmosphere was unhurried and easy, the rules and regulations that I had known in English catering did not seem to apply. As it was early in the season I had a quiet start and began to learn the ropes. This was just as well for in those early days I discovered that I knew none of the appropriate words for the job. I had to do a lot of things by guesswork. My command of the language improved rapidly. “So that must be the word for ‘broom’ and that the words for ‘sweeping up’”were typical thoughts that went through my head. I also found it very tiring to have to be so alert constantly.

Then came my first Sunday…...