Down the hill I had to pull hard on the reins. Pedders wanted to go faster but whoah there young man. We had all day.
We got into a rhythm on the sweeping bends and my pen – that I’d tossed into the metal travel mug – rang session bells as we leaned from side to side.
That morning I’d sent a chiding text to Vlad for recommending a place where everything was shut and the rain was falling. ‘I am not responsible for the weather,’ he replied. ‘I am only a dentist.’ Then he sent me a gif of Mr Bean laughing. He was a fan. I had already told him that everyone outside Britain seemed to love Mr Bean. But at home he was almost a national embarrassment. So I took it as a gentle piss take on his part.
Volos. The mythic home of Jason and his argonauts. Now a substantial university town with a port serving the islands of the Sporades.
Again I was approving of the way they had protected the promenade from further incursions. It meant a meeting place for the students and residents of the town.
Further along were gardens and cafes under the plane trees where I had a very good coffee.
Although a nice town, most of it’s original buildings had been replaced with concrete blocks. A few dilapidated examples survived but there seemed no interest in recreating them with modern materials. A shame because I thought their faded belle epoque style rather easy on the eye.
Then a church in a square that looked like an advertisement for stone cladding. You could imagine it at Disney world. ‘We welcome you to ancient Thessaly.’
This town is widely regarded for its tsipouradika where they serve a lethal kind of raki along with small plates of tapas.
So I had to give it a go.
The waiter asked how many bottles I wanted. He suggested two. Okay. Then he asked ‘With or without anis?’ Apparently one was like ouzo and the other like grappa. Having had trouble finding my socks under the bed – let alone putting them on the next day – after previous experiences with grappa, I opted for the anis version.
The problem with this kind of drink is that, unless you keep a friendly lab rat about your person to test it on, you really have no idea just how potent it is until someone turns the room through 90 degrees and you find yourself face down on the carpet dribbling.
Their tsispouri was homemade and came in miniature bottles. The bloke next to me poured his into his water glass, added ice and topped up with water. I did the same.
I knew it was working when a chap with a clarinet played a tuneless warble for half a minute and then held his hand out. I gave him 50 cents to the amazement of the other tables. Perhaps they had been hoping for Stranger on the Shore?
The whole thing – including a kind of fridge cake dessert and a coffee – came to less than eight euros.
I decided a walk was in order to top up on supplies.
A couple of parallel streets sold everything you could wish for. And a few things you wouldn’t wish on an enemy. The Athlete’s Foot? I mean who wouldn’t have Googled before plumping for that name?
Call me a philistine but, now povisioned, I dodged the Brick Making Museum, gave the exhibition of folk art a swerve and the Byzantine beaker and tile collection a miss.
