I’ve entered a chapter of sunrises. And it’s gone well past the point of blaming jet lag. There is just something about them for me right now that makes me want to get up and in them. No matter how late the night before or how patchy my sleep, it’s now part of my ritual to be down on the beach at dawn with a front row seat. I could open the skylight in my little red house and see in the new day from there, but making my way to the beach, running, jogging, sloping, or even driving, has become a morning pilgrimage. Not every morning. But most mornings. I had thought it might be a sign of some new and exciting (and evidently imaginary) phase that I was about to embark on. But then I remembered Steinbeck. And realised that I was doing an awful lot of cobbling*.
The signs that I’m noticing after the thing has happened lead me to believe that it’s perhaps something I’m doing so that I might feel grounded. The world is unsettled. And I’m not exactly sure where I fit into it. So the certainty of sunrise is reassuring. Although I have been surprised by the almost minute-a-day delay each morning. Despite being old enough to be wise, I really hadn’t realised quite at what speed the nights extend as winter draws in. Although it does feel it will be a little while longer before winter truly arrives here. Which is a relief. I know I’ve said it already, but two winters back to back was definitely not part of the plan when I left London. And that’s the point, isn’t it? Who knows what’s around the corner.
There are shifts to be made with this gradual changing of seasons. Whether I’m ready or not, summer is on the wane and the tavernas and kafenia are slowly emptying and making preparations to close down for the winter. Olive harvesting season is approaching. The beach is quiet during the week and the holiday-makers that once were regulars have all but disappeared. And now, this morning, my Ma has headed back to London and I’ve relocated to her little house on the hill. Which has a clear view of the sunrise, by the way. I’ve perfected (well, perhaps not yet perfected) a very modest selection of Greek words and phrases and am working hard at learning more. Enlisting the help of local Palaikastrians who are only too keen to teach me. These are going to be my people for the next few months. If I stay that long. And I can see no reason why I won’t. I’m slowly edging my way, respectfully, from holiday-maker to resident.
So. As the sun rises each day, I’m finding my way. Maybe even becoming known. Last weekend, a very unexpected and very Cretan evening reminded me of back-stage passes when, in the early hours of Sunday morning, I found myself amongst a group of locals gathered beside a caravan in the middle of an olive grove. It was still warm and the cicadas were chirruping. The evening unfolded without me really having much at all to do with the direction it took. It had started in the bar in the village square and progressed to the cantina in the harbour. A rough and ready barbecue shack that has back-stage pass written all over it. I had always thought it was a fishermen only club. And then I was in an olive grove. I couldn’t understand much of what anyone was saying but shot glasses of raki were being slammed on the long table accompanied by voices in chorus, Yiamas! And this I understood very well. Cheers! And two musicians, one with a lyre and one with a lute, from the local kazani also arrived ready to play and sing for their supper. And their raki. It was dark, it was loud and rowdy, and it was one of those memorable moments. It was Crete.
Raki is the local tipple. It’s a grape-based pomace brandy. Which means it’s made from what’s left of the grapes once the wine-making process is completed. It’s pretty strong. A small bottle and glasses are brought out at the end of every meal in every taverna. And I won’t go near it. There’s a home-brew element to it and people distill their own in the village kazani. If you’re invited to a kazani, you’ve won the golden ticket as far as back-stage passes are concerned. And I guess, if I’m ever lucky enough to win that ticket, I’ll drink some. I’ll have to. And then maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of the sunrise from a different perspective.
*(blogpost: An Awful Lot of Cobbling - 15 November 2019)
Sweet Thursday says, much more eloquently than I’m about to, that we often don’t notice the signs until a thing has already happened. But is suggesting we cobble together random incidents in order to imagine we could have seen her coming. I’m doing an awful lot of cobbling.
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