Hellas Bellas

I was Greek.

Well, just for the two weeks.

The country, the lifestyle, the climate, the music and above all the namesake salad overwhelmed me and I was Greek.

In these times of easy and cheap travel you may find it surprising, or even amazing that my first ever flight in an airliner was when I was in my late 30's but that was the situation with our first family holiday abroad.

It had always been so much easier with young children to pack up the car and go on vacation within the British Isles rather than contemplate being reliant on others for transport and sustenance. At least, if we needed to stop for toilet break, cup of tea or just for a snooze we could pull over by the road or in a scenic rest area and get on with what needed to be done.

There was so much of our own country to see that travel to foreign parts was not a priority in order to see and enjoy great sights, sounds and atmospheres. The children could be enthused with our own history by a walk along a section of Hadrian's Wall, an outlook from the elevation of Edinburgh Castle, beachcombing in Cornwall, skimming pebbles off the Northumberland coast, finding dead sheep on a Scottish Lochside or looking at old buildings in our fine cities.

The catalyst to our inaugural adventure to Greece, or rather the Ionian Island of Kefalonia was that Captain Corelli movie which showed a fantastic terrain, white sandy beaches, a clear blue ocean and so much more.

We started from scratch as none of us had a current passport. Clothes and sensible but appropriate footwear had to be acquired but it was something of a guessing game as to what temperatures and humidity we would experience out there.

We travelled in an English August in wet weather gear and woollies and were taken aback by how little our fellow passengers were wearing as we stood around in Manchester Airport in the early hours of the morning for the 7am scheduled flight. Our rookie status must have been very obvious. We huddled together not confident enough to wander about in the shops and eateries airside. I was guilty of regularly delving into my small rucksack to check and recheck the paperwork which, itself, was meticulously arranged in strict order in clear plastic wallets.

We squinted at the departures board every time it flickered and displayed a change even though our destination was well down the rankings. We were very early for the preliminary steps but so well prepped that we sailed through the check-in, baggage checks and security screening with no drama or excitement apart from the novelty of it all.

I was always, before the event, apprehensive about flying and I admit to some palpitations during the sprint to take off speed and then the rapid climb to the first stomach churning turn. I remained calm on the outside so as not to startle or embarrass the children who were, in any case, enthralled by the noise and view from the small windows.

It would be a three hour flight but it passed quickly, what with the constant attention given by the cabin crew and offers of food or other goodies on a regular basis.

What struck me first about Greece was the sheer heat as we stepped off the plane and walked across the concrete apron to the small island terminal. I had not been prepared for it and every pore in my body opened up and leaked out instantaneously.

We boarded a coach for the transfer to our accommodation. The photo in the brochure had shown a front door, one window and some whitewashed interiors with sparse but adequate furnishings. Apart from that there were no clues as to where it was or what the outlook or surroundings were like. The numbers on the bus dwindled rapidly as we wound along the narrow roads and individuals, couples or family groups alighted and disappeared up or down a path above or below the carriageway.

We were one of the last lot to leave the hot, sweaty bus with the tour rep ticking us off her list and pointing vaguely in the direction of a two storey modern apartment block. It was a compact place, deep, dark and thankfully cool for the early morning as we flopped out and rested from jet lag.

The lack of any supplies led me to venture out in what was now the full midday sun. It was a foolhardy but typically English thing to do and three hours later and a bit frazzled and red I returned with a large bag of crisps, some bread and a few bottles of mineral water.

The nearest settlement of any note had been some distance away over the hills. The true folly of my expedition was only evident a couple of days later when the same journey in our hire car seemed to take an age.

Being Greek is very much a frame of mind. It is a characteristic dictated by keeping out of the harsh sun and heat, doing things slowly and enjoying them. These attributes are again completely alien to us English.

The best and most comfortable times in the day were the very early morning and the late evening. This was when the Greek population did what they had to do in work and chores but not forgetting setting aside a good time to just talk, eat and drink. We expected to do a lot of sightseeing and to absorb the culture and heritage of the island but our most active hours coincided with the shutting down of activity by the locals.

The main street of Argostoli, marble paved was deserted from midday to tea time giving the impression of a sleepy backwater rather than the thriving economy that it was.

My assimilation into Greekness was slow.

It included being patient from ordering a cool drink or a snack meal which could take an age. Excess movement was discouraged in favour of just finding the shadiest spot and staying there. Shopping had to be savoured rather than to be attacked and completed as quickly as possible. There was a protocol in purchasing everything, a period for reflection and then bargaining. Very un-English but perfectly logical and understandable in one of the oldest cultures of the world.

I gradually acclimatised to Greek hours and practices.

This was assisted by my personal discovery of the Greek Salad and the music of Stamatis Spanoudakis.

I would order and savour that same dish at every opportunity. There was some degree of interpretation of the components across the island with varying amounts of fresh tomatoes, cucumber , onion, feta cheese and olive oil but I was always left with a feeling of contentment and happiness.

I did eventually track down the Spanoudakis CD in a small record shop on the island and our subsequent holidays in Greece seemed to coincide with his next and latest release of atmospheric orchestral and choral offerings.

My CD shelf is fair bulging with half a dozen of his works and the ambience of the sounds of his native country are always close by.

For the rest of the authentic experience I just pop down to the Tesco Express and with a plastic bag of the staple ingredients, donning sandals, shorts and T shirt at any time of the year I am whisked back to those fond memories. As my children say, I have always been a bit of a Greek, or something to that effect.