As months go, I’ve never been fond of November. After the smoky hiss and sparkle of Bonfire Night, I just sit tight through the windy, wet days until the shiny promise of Christmas looms. I love sparkle. It was during the dark days of November that I lost both my parents; hence the month could never again gain favour.
So I’ve escaped the UK early – for my future blog posts I’ll be ‘typing from the taverna’ in Cyprus.
I’ll be my usual inquisitive (nosey…) self. Rambling all over the island and sharing my finds with you, along with my tips for anyone who fancies heading towards this corner of the Med. Once back ‘home’ at the end of the day I may even venture into the kitchen. (No promises). I’m no great cook but I’ve resolved to experiment. I’ll start by gathering the figs and pomegranates which are now ripe and heavy and dropping from the trees around me with a telltale gentle thud.
It’s 6pm and the sun is sinking rapidly – the colours spilling into the sky as if someone is slowly pouring a glass of Tequila Sunrise over the sea.
Before me sits a bowl of glistening, rich black olives atop crumbly, salty feta cheese and I spy a cheeky gecko making a gallant attempt at my gin. At this hour the menfolk of the village will be gathering at the kafeneion. If you were to walk by, you’d hear the clinking of glasses of milky ouzo, the faint rattle of beads as the kombolói (worry beads) are rhythmically played through and around fingers and the constant scraping of wooden chairs as men rise to greet each other or jump up to express despair or elation as the card games roll on…
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στην υγειά μαs “To our health”