The mythical island of Dendros hasn’t appeared for two years so we were pleased to be able to go to it this year. A 16-hour delay to our flight meant we arrived at the Big Island in the small hours and breezed through the much-improved new terminal building. At Gatwick no representative of the airline was available, only Ground Handlers. The pilot came to talk to us when we finally got to the Gate and said that he and the rest of the crew had come in off their rest day to crew the plane, which had been brought in from Italy. The original plane had been at Gatwick since 3am but wasn’t available to fly.. He felt our treatment was unacceptable and he had told the MD of the airline so. We applauded! Amazingly, some taxi drivers were waiting to meet the flight and we were soon at the port. Several hours to go before the first ferry to Dendros so the taxi didn’t have to do the usual Grand Prix speed. The taverna where we usually have a drink and a pre-ferry meal was dark but the guy in the one across the road was just opening up to provide a Greek breakfast (coffee and cigarette) for the taxi drivers now assembling ready to meet passengers off the (very) early ferry from Dendros. He was happy to serve us (and 3 other travellers bound for Dendros) a simple meal while we waited for the ferry which would return to Dendros at 08.15.
        We had kept The Landlord appraised of our fraught journey and he was at the dock to meet us off the ferry. We should have been there at 17.00 the previous afternoon on the ferrt we normally catch. He had even brought his gardener/handyman to help with the luggage as it is 100 yards along a shingle and sand beach from the road to our apartment (not good for wheeled cases) and then up several flights of steps. We made a quick stop at the supermarket to stock up with items that the village shop were unlikely to have. We arrived to say a quick Hello to our friends the Writer and the Magician in the next apartment ( a first time for them, and they agreed the best they’d stayed at in the village.) We found a welcome pack waiting for us: wine, honey, jam, fruit from the Landlord’s garden and beach towels.   This was one of the many improvements since the Landlord’s eldest son, the accountant, had taken over the booking of the apartments on Airbnb.   We finally got rid of the Landlord ( a lovely man and good to hear all his news and to exchange ours, but we just wanted to shower and sleep after a 31 hour door-to-door journey). On the journey from the port to the village the Landlord was almost always on one or other of his mobile phones turning down potential bookings as he was fully booked up to November, despite a healthy price rise. The prices he was quoting, especially to our “Northern European cousins” were up to 60 euros a night more than we paid as “family”. We were not asked for the tourist room tax. As well as the two first floor apartments and the ground floor family one he has a disused basement one with no view, the windows are high up and ankle height at ground level outside. Increasing demand has meant that he and his son had refurbished this accommodation and were putting the finishing touches prior to adding it to Airbnb for the rest of the season
        We subsequently heard from the airline that they would be paying us compensation of £350 each and vouchers of £150 each for future flights which should pay for our flights next year. Our attempt to claim online was at first rejected as the flight number was unrecognised but they solved the glitch and it worked OK when we did it from home later.
        When we finally resurfaced we had the usual catch up with the Guitarist and his family at the taverna, including the 2 youngest grandchildren, boys now 5 and 2 who were running around, cycling etc like Duracell bunnies. There were many familiar faces among regular visitors by plane and yacht including 82-yearold Dutch solo yachtsman who brings a bag of harmonicas and can accompany anything from Greek songs through pop music to the blues. During the fortnight I was “persuaded” to perform ( I won’t say sing) House of the Rising Sun with kazoo solo a couple of times and also Goodnight Irene and Hootchie Cootchie Man, and the Writer and the Magician led us all in Mud ,Mud, Glorious Mud: a firm favourite with all nationalities!
        As usual, the bay was popular with visiting yachts, never fewer than eight and up to 25 at one time so all the restaurants in the village were kept busy. We dined at 3, depending where a large party from “Oop North” (10 of them) were dining, to avoid overcrowding. They were there to investigate the possibility of a wedding next year. I wonder, once they heard of the bureaucracy involved, if they had a change of heart. They were talking of spending £500 on dynamite for the traditional bangs!   The Greek Coastguard made a trip into the bay and, shades of the Navy Lark, made 3 or 4 clumsy attempts in a calm sea to come alongside a moored Turkish yacht. They left without visiting any of the others.
        I suspect we weren’t the only people glad to be able to travel post-Covid (I am quadruple jabbed because of my advanced years) without needing vaccination certification or Passenger Location Forms.
One evening was very strange as a very drunk English woman, kept asking the Guitarist to play Yesterday and Country Roads, although she and her 2 male fellow yacht’s crew didn’t seem to know much of either the words or tune.
We never need an alarm clock there. The church next door rings a very loud bell at about 7 am once a week for a service on different days depending on the schedule of a visiting priest. And one or more goats with lour bells come nibbling at the Landlord’s bougainvillea at a similar ungodly hour. I eat goat stew at least once every holiday to get my own back.
We got the usual warm welcome from the village shopkeeper. She must have a portrait or icon in the attic as she looks just the same as she did on our first visit 28 years ago, though now her son works with her and her husband is busy stopping their grandchildren from throwing themselves in front of traffic or into the sea.   It was the same with the travelling green grocer, the cafe owner we go to in the town and the town baker we use.
        A sad thing occurred one day. Early one morning a bereaved father drove his car off one of the hairpin bends into the sea. The Coast guard recovered his body.
Ou Landlord and his family come up to their apartment most weekends and insist on sending up a lunch, this year including the Writer and Magician. The first Sunday it was cheese pie, salad, bread and melon from their garden. On the second Sunday it was turkey legs Greek style (slow roasted with herbs) and mustard infused chips, salad (enough to salvage a couple of later meals) a starter platter of cheese, ham and olives and then more melon, enough for several breakfasts.   In our turn we were implicit in hiding his tsipouro habit from his wife. “If she finds it she’ll pour it away”, he says and stores it in the freezer of our apartment.
I have said how we are encouraged to join in the musical entertainment at the taverna we favour. The Magician also performs and amazes. After 2 years of being unable to perform close-up magic because of Covid restrictions he proved he was as dextrous as usual.
The two young grandson at the taverna go out fishing with their father (no lifejackets) and “swim” in the shallows with armbands on, the 5-yearold supervising his brother. No child seats in the family car nor helmets (or shoes|) for cycling either.
The “Sun lounger Wars” which enlivened previous “Postcards” are now a thing of the past. The “White Headscarf Granny” who used to have a pitch at the end of the beach is no more and the vacancy unfilled leading to a shortage, especially if they don’t bring in more before high season.   When we were unable to find any one day (except at rival establishments, Taverna Son no 2 had to leave his own restaurant business and go and bring his own (“I’m always working so I never get a chance to use them”) for us to use.
The mooring buoy dispute that took over has finally been resolved by the current mayor. Businesses can’t sponsor a buoy, expecting users to patronise their establishment, all are municipal and free to all.
The Dutchman was running our of hearing aid batteries and mine were the wrong size and as we were going in to the town we offered to get some. Pharmacies didn’t stock them but the helpful lady in the sponge/gift shop pointed us to an electrician, who pointed us to a phone shop, who pointed us to an optician who pointed us to a jeweller who proudly displayed a drawerful of various sizes. Sadly, by the time we got back to the village the Dutchman had set sail to fulfil a gig in Leros. We left them for him at the tavern pending his return after we left. Before his departure he had wrangled his faulty airconditioner into his dinghy and rowed it ashore for the Guitarist to repair (it was his day job before he sold up to run a taverna).
The police came up to the village one night to investigate messy and illegal camping in the next bay (the villagers had for once collaborated on an unheard of beach and street clean up pre-season). The stopped by the taverna and were treated to a magic trick or two before departing. I didn’t singe to them: it might have been regarded as a breach of the peace. The fire truck also patrolled one night as thee had been hillside fires last year near the village. There aren’t many trees but low juniper shrubs and herbs cover the mountainside.
Our return journey wasn’t quite as fraught. We got to the Big Island to find a queue for non-existent taxis and roadworks on the airport road out of the port. Our usual taverna was open with a sole member of staff and no chef but we had a drink and snack and he called us a taxi so we were at the airposr the requested 2 hours before our flight. Baggage handling problems meant long queues at check-in (no bag-drop or online check-in available). We were 1hour 50 minutes in the check-in queue, raced through Security and were queuing at Passport Control when our (and other) names were called for our flight. They let us jump the queue, grabbed some snacks (no time to admire the new shops and eateries) and made it to the last shuttle bus to the plane (we could have walked there quicker: the bus waiting 10 minutes before leaving. The plane bore no insignia: a Lithuanian airline registered in Malta (or vice-versa) though crewed by the company we book with, as on the outward flight. We were seated in separate rows but took off only an hour late. At Gatwick we breezed through as our bags were among the first off and got home in good time.
        We’ve now filled in the compensation form and (with great delight|) the airline Customer Satisfaction Survey! We’ve also e-mailed the Accountant to provisionally booked the apartment for the equivalent dates next year pending flight confirmation.
I’m sorry nothing particularly amusing or bizarre happened this year. Those of you who are Thimble O’Hooligan’s Facebook friends can see a few photos on his page,
RtS