Impressive, quirky, idiosyncratic


A major celebration is always a time for reflection, for remembering people and occasions, quirks and sayings, events of significance and insignificance. Granny used to say… I can still see his face when… Do you remember the time we went to…? That’s something I’ll always remember, especially when the idiot…

So reflections were on my mind as well as lips during our stay in Madeira. Some were prompted by one of my inputs to the celebration, the book of memories, photographs and stories I had produced that gave a flavour of our fifty years and more together. Photographs of people even I had never known to be passed down to the next generations, or those of our engagement party and wedding, of the family when young, and more recently of our daughter’s wedding, laced with stories in which parts of my own life, my feelings and experiences, were reflected.


The front of the Quinta Freitas, set within a garden of palms and exotic plants.

For the occasion we had rented a quinta on the outskirts of Madeira. After much discussion husband and I agreed a celebration in the sun won hands down over one in dreary November weather at home. Besides, rather than a one evening or one day celebration, it allowed us to extend it to eleven days – and why not.

The quinta was impressive but quirky, idiosyncratic, just what we wanted as a backdrop to our reflections of fifty years.


Windows in the dining area, open even in the evening, the mirror between them reflecting part of the chandelier over the table.


Mahogany sideboard reflecting the fanlight above the entrance door. The golden orchid travelled home with us  and is still just about surviving, a reminder of golden days in Madeira.

Built by the owner thirty years ago as a family home on a terraced site that was part of the banana plantation belonging to his family, the quinta was furnished in traditional Madeiran style, albeit in probably a rather grander scale than what most of the island’s inhabitants probably lived with. But this gave us impressive surrounding in which to celebrate, with its large mahogany tables seating a dozen in both kitchen and open plan dining area where a crystal chandelier provided sparkle and light. It was one of three in the spacious area of dining room, entrance area and hall, with its 300-year old doors from a demolished church, and the impressive lounge area.


The gold candles seemed very appropriate. Again, although taken in the lounge area, the fanlight above the old doors can be seen.


The quinta boasted numerous grand mirrors, this intricately carved  one in the lounge area.


Dining table and window reflected. On the left is the door to the large kitchen.


One mirror reflecting the reflection in another mirror in the lounge part of this enormous open plan space.

In the upstairs hall was another seating area with doors leading out onto a balcony with day bed seating. Bedrooms were huge and en suite bathrooms large enough to hold parties in comfort.


Part of the spacious upstairs landing.


Dressing table cluttered with my bits and pieces.


The bedhead and tapestry above can be glimpsed in this.


I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a large mirror in a bathroom. It reflects the wardrobes which were all sited in the bathrooms rather than the bedrooms. To the left is a corner whirlpool bath.


As I love coloured glass I couldn’t resist this little duck catching the light and reflecting it.

As part of the reflections theme I grabbed the opportunity to take photographs of the enormous and intricately framed mirrors around the rooms, fascinated by seeing the spaces from a different aspect. It’s strange how that can show something different from what your eyes see, or what you expect. A bit like reversing an image or photograph and how it can make the subject look very different, or more intriguing, prompting questions about what lies beyond.


From the hall looking towards the mirrors in the lounge area with their reflections.

Our celebration in the sun provided an opportunity to spend time with our family and get to know our grandchildren better. What better way to spend a golden wedding!


Golden reflections on a golden occasion.

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It began as a card

It began as a card for my husband to mark a significant milestone, our special anniversary, but a card seemed insufficient to cover fifty years of marriage. So I wondered about a double card but wasn’t sure how I could make that work with two folded sheets of photographic paper, but went ahead anyway.

The double card prompted thoughts of a small booklet which I could have printed, so I pressed on. In the end the card turned out to be a 220 page, A5 book, printed on good paper. A brief memoir (which will have missed out lots), full of black and white and coloured photographs covering the period and more, truncated family trees, and pieces of my writing (including short stories and a chapter from a recent book) in which I’d used vivid memories and experiences that lingered in my mind. All put together in a week as it had to be delivered from the printer before we went off to Madeira for our big family celebration. More on that in another post.

The finished books (limited edition, with one copy for each of the family) added considerable kilos to my cabin luggage (just as well Easyjet didn’t weigh it). The gold candles, tea lights and holders, napkins and table decorations were in another heavy case in the hold.

As we enjoyed a glass of sparkling stuff in the lounge of our quinta prior to our meal on the big day I handed out a book, wrapped appropriately in gold paper) to each of my family.

Hopefully, they and our grandchildren will enjoy leafing through their copy, dipping in to read pieces, exclaiming at photographs of people they never knew but whose genes help make them the people they are.

That was one of my contributions to the celebration. And I’m rather chuffed with the end result.


Oh, and by the way, the original card which became the book cover was still used as a card for my husband. And he did me a delightful one too.

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November 1st


Here comes winter. The clock has changed and we’re in the count-down to Christmas, though many shops have been sneaking festive fare into their displays for the past month and more. But with Halloween over, and a free run until December 25th (though here in Scotland we have St Andrew’s day on November 30th, with Thanksgiving in the States) retailers will be ramming presents, food and what to wear for those wall-to-wall parties (what parties, we huddle by the fire here!) and that all-important big day.

November the first, and surprisingly it’s been another lovely day here.



Michaelmas daisies in a variety of colours add splashes of bright colour despite the late season.


Golden Rod – a bit of a thug but welcome here for its hardiness and yellow that reminds of sunny summer days.


These have flowered since the spring in a border by the roadside – a narrow country road which at harvest and some other times can seem like an urban motorway.

Mild for the time of year though colder today, and as frosts until now have been few and far between late-flowering plants are still blooming in our country garden with a backdrop of turning leaves on the beech hedge and a blaze of golden yellow on the beech tree at the foot of the garden.


White heather for luck, and because it’s a Scottish garden, shows up well against the reddening berberis.


The remains of two cornflowers poke out from the surrounding foliage.


A gorgeous splash of colour from some late-flowering bulbs, though can’t remember their name.

Such a joy to see plants still in bloom as it lessens the dead period of winter ruled by bare branches, rotting leaves, and the skeletons of shrubs.


I love this image with different coloured foliage against the whinstone wall.


Purple flowered clematis still rambling through the beech hedge.


A clump of Japanese anemones still flowering bravely, though sadly almost over.

But it isn’t just flowers providing colour. Plants with different shapes and colours of leaves add real interest at this time of year. It has taken us years to get many of them established, but now on the first day of November I can feel my spirits rise as I look out my kitchen window and enjoy the array of colours.


The large beech tree at the foot of the garden.


Another great autumn foliage contrast.


Groundcover plants still providing colour and texture.

So I couldn’t stop myself marching outside with my camera to capture some of this late bounty. As well as being a pleasure to look at during dreary monochrome winter months, my photographs are reminders of shapes and colours, places, objects and quirks of light that I can draw on in my writing to add authenticity to the settings for my characters.



A lonely pansy adding a touch of purple in the corner of a flower bed.


The children in the house next door have been celebrating Halloween.

Something noticed, captured in a photograph, the image inserted in words into a story for others to relive the experience. This year’s November the first will last into the future.


The climbing rose by the door is still bravely blooming.


I think this is a Nandinia. It grows in a large pot from a small cutting we took from a garden years ago.


In the flower bed by the door a golden yew gives a sunny welcome to visitors, while at this time of year the berberis puts on a fiery show.


Holly, associated with Christmas, but in our garden it’s at its best now. Long before Christmas it will be bare of berries, the birds having feasted themselves, though we’ll still be left with its glossy, rich green, spineless leaves

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Previously average


As I stay far from shops I have become a great fan of online shopping. This of course means buying without trying on, so I’ve had to think harder about what styles suit and what colours would work with other clothes in my wardrobe.

Until fairly recently I haven’t had a problem with clothes shopping, as I seemed to be around average height. So skirts were the length I wanted and sleeves were made for the length of my arms. From a few shops I’d passed I knew some taller people experienced problems, but was content in my averageness.


No clothes – just as well as with those shoulders I’m sure she would never have been regarded as average.

But now things have changed dramatically. Despite those around me appearing to be of similar heights to me, the odd tall, lank beanpole being the stand-out exception, I now find I and those around me are no longer average. Models posing in online shops have become the new average it seems. Some sites helpfully give the height of the model in the image. Five foot ten seems the norm. This is a full six and a bit inches taller than me, taller than what used to be the five foot four average.


Pretty sure she wouldn’t have been considered average either.

So I know if the dress or skirt is described as knee length and that’s where it comes to on the model, that on me the same item would be mid calf. Some online stores give the length. I almost wrote ‘helpfully give the length’ but sizing matters are never quite so simple. The length given is for the model’s UK size eight or ten, with a note that the length for other sizes will vary accordingly. Hmmm! Why do they think larger sizes are necessarily taller? I’m left in the dark to work out how much my larger size might add to the length as no indication is given. So mid calf could well become ankle length. Of course some stores merely give an image and brief description, leaving the would-be purchaser totally in the dark about whether the item might fit or drown, be practically tripped up by the skirt length or with hands that disappear to the elbow of lengthy sleeves.


Average for models perhaps.

A few manufacturers have opted to introduce ‘petite’ ranges. It took me a while to come to terms with the fact my mature, once average, curvaceous figure is now regarded as petite – not a description I would ever have applied to myself. So, having at length sussed this out, I thought I could relax when ordering online, certain of garments that fitted. But celebrations were premature. While jackets are a more appropriate length instead of making me look like a 1950s Teddy Boy, and my hands are free to move as the sleeves are a shorter length, I still have a problem with skirts.


Whatever the length, not my style. These would make me look like a heavily decorated Christmas tree lit up for the festivities.


Now this is more my style – minus the hat. Not a great hat person, but do tend to like wafting around in long skirts, especially in winter as they keep my legs warm. Looking closer, these just might be wide-legged trousers, reminiscent of the 1970s. Fun.

You see, manufacturers appear to believe that those now classed as petite should wear their skirts mid calf – a length I hate and which does little for the rest of me. The measurements of the recently average woman have been shredded with some new mid calf standard imposed on us. It’s enough to make me wear nothing but trousers.


Historic Chinese warlords  yet the garb looks strangely relevant to today’s dress – denim skirts (yes, I know they’re men but wait for what’s coming below) leggings and leather jackets. Cool!

Trousers – now there’s another problem. While some marvellous stores do sell trousers and leggings in three different lengths — 29, 31 and 33 inch, others merely sell trousers or leggings, leaving us to buy and find out the hard way that their trousers are made for giraffes and not newly petite women.


The person on the left is a man, and his dress is not so different to the Mandarins above. My days of wearing a mini kilt are over, sadly. Something more knee length suits better.


Talking of kilts and skirt lengths, there is a regulation length for a kilt. When kneeling on the ground the material should just touch it, although nowadays it’s more a case of anything goes.

Naturally I have suggested to some online suppliers that more information on lengths would see more satisfied customers and fewer returns, but so far none have deigned to respond, leaving me to think they are only interested in the new five foot ten average and not us former averages now relegated to petites.


I can see advantages to being a mermaid, no clothes to worry about, but then no excitement about buying something new to wear.

Is it just me, or does any other woman have problem with the length of clothes?

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Food al fresco


When you hail from a country where summers rarely reach dizzying heights of temperature (more often a breezy mix of sun and cloud and the occasional shower) eating in the open air is a fairly rare experience, especially when it comes to evening meals. As the sun goes down the dew falls, making it chilly to sit outside, and more often than not the pesky midges appear to make the occasion a misery rather than a pleasure. So one of the real joys of trips abroad is being able to enjoy evening meals in open air restaurants, dressed in short sleeved tops or dresses, without even having to think of taking a cardigan. As for an umbrella, forget it. During summer in the islands of the Aegean the sun reigns.


Pefkos restaurant where diners can watch food being cooked on an outside grill and pizza oven.

In Pefkos we were spoilt for choice when it came to restaurants, so we chose those not showing football (the Euros were on so football tension was in the air and many bars and restaurants had large screens on which games could be watched), those offering food that appealed, especially dishes with a Greek flavour (prices in most restaurants were fairly similar with a few exceptions), and those with atmosphere by the cart load. Later we added another criteria: warm, friendly staff.


Julia Gabrielle from Romania and Dimitris from Albania served us and chatted to us in Taso’s restaurant – The Olive Groves.

So here are some of the surroundings where we whiled away our evenings and stored up memories as the sun set, darkness fell, candles were lit, and paving stones radiated heat stored during the day. Music, often plucked on a mandolin for that extra Greek touch, played in the background, never so obtrusive that you couldn’t conduct a conversation, but sufficient to add to that all-important atmosphere.


Spitaki restaurant which we returned to time and again for its food, atmosphere and lovely staff.

Some diners turned up in shorts and T-shirts, but most grabbed the opportunity for casual dressing-up in dresses, maxi dresses, or trousers and eye-catching tops. Some even hirpled along the uneven roads in strappy, four-inch heel sandals, though the sane opted for footwear more suited to outdoor dining in a village resort.


The recently opened, spectacular Kouros restaurant which made diners feel they were enjoying a meal amidst romantic Greek ruins.


The green lit trees and foliage provided a touch of the exotic.


Trees with entwined branches stood like fluted Greek columns above the restaurant.

Pushchairs with toddlers were numerous as were under school-age children (this was June, before schools broke up for the summer). Greeks retain a sense of family as well as a sense of history. So as soon as diners with children appeared there was a rush to bring a highchair (usually a smart, bright multi-coloured one) and the menu for children who were made as welcome as the adults. The history bit is evident in many of the older properties that are not sold but passed down to the next generation.


The Olive Groves restaurant which seemed a favourite with families with young children.

One of the restaurants we visited numerous times was set in the garden of a traditional house. The small house had been transformed into the kitchen of the restaurant.


Spitaki restaurant with its cerise tablecloths and pink bougainvillea.

The restaurant owners could only rent the space as the house owners wanted to keep the property in the family. A far cry from how homes are acquired and disposed of in much of the UK. Probably, too, the reason for many derelict properties in Rhodes as the next generation might want to renovate or build anew on the site incorporating something of the original house into the new. So, a sense of family, a sense of history, a sense also of belonging to a particular place where faces are well-known and families go back generations, rooted in the rocky land.

The same applies to land. The wife of one restaurant owner told us she stayed in a modern house which incorporated her old family home and that would be passed on to her daughters. Her father had given her three small pieces of land with olive trees, about a hundred in all.


Meltemi restaurant, a restaurant with a clean, modern feel whilst still drawing on tradition.

When the restaurant closes in October the olives will be picked, a time-consuming and difficult task, she told us. Then they have to be cured and fermented, before being covered in brine ready for eating or storing. The green olives we enjoyed bowls full of in the restaurant were from her family olive trees that would be passed on to her family. As all the olives we tasted were slightly different, individual flavours with added secret ingredients instead of often bland mass produced, no doubt this is a common practice.


At Spitaki restaurant  coffee is served in style with a dash of tradition. For goodness sake don’t call it Turkish, both tradition and coffee are Greek we were repeatedly told. Not surprising since Rhodes once was part of Turkey.

Amazing how much you can learn about a country from its food and its restaurants.


When I think of Pefkos this is the image that will forever spring to mind – Spitaki restaurant under its canopy of bougainvillea where I enjoyed so many great lamb dishes and chats with the owner’s wife about food, cooking, family and life.

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Noir – author and experts


Recently, husband and I were pleased to receive an invitation to a book launch, not in the tented village of the Edinburgh book festival, but not far from it in Waterstones, the well-known book shop, at the West End of Princes Street. Lin Anderson, Tartan Noir crime novelist and co-founder of the Bloody Scotland crime writing festival, was launching another book – None but the Dead – about her forensic pathologist Rhona MacLeod, the action of this book taking place on the small Orkney island of Sanday.


One of many covered walkways to protect from mud and rain. There are of course glorious days too – like this one.

Lin’s book launch took place in the cafe area of the bookshop where we managed to bag good seats before the place filled, and sat sipping glasses of Prosecco, welcome on a hot afternoon.


The Waterstones store at the West End of Princes Street, just a hop, skip and a jump from the Book Festival and one of the many places that during the festival becomes a venue.

Lin spoke of where the idea for her latest book had come from, all the while greeting people whose faces she recognised. As she spoke she mentioned her experts, many of them in her audience, people she relied on for information for her books. A pathologist, a soil expert, those knowledgeable on local history and customs, fishermen with an understanding of tides and boat hiding places, someone with expertise on buried and hidden bodies, and numerous others, with mention of an expert at Dundee University who reconstructs faces from skulls. Her book acknowledges a list of those providing information to her and to whom she sends appropriate pieces of her manuscript for checking.


Lin Anderson talking about her latest book and answering questions from her audience.

Many authors manage to draw a coterie of such people around them, providing information without which the books could not be written in such a detailed and authentic manner – the smell of death, the cutting and sawing procedures followed at post mortems, the painstaking process of gathering and sifting forensic evidence for clues of how the victim died and who might have been responsible. The details that often add stomach-churning horror are carefully researched.


Book heaven. Sunshine and endless volumes to read as well as authors to meet.

Even in our time of Internet knowledge at our fingertips, experts have become increasingly necessary as sometimes publishers allow errors to slip though the editorial net. I once heard a well-known author tell that after the publication of his highly acclaimed book (shortlisted for international prizes) he was told by a reader that the game which formed a significant part of his historical novel, had not been devised until many years after his book action took place. So without expert consultation gaffes can bedevil even established writers.


Got the book, now for a cup of coffee.

To reach the stage where it’s possible to have a team of experts to provide necessary information is a huge benefit. I know I have often struggled with facts or lack of them. What would happen if…? What’s the procedure for that? I’ve written what I think might happen but have I got it right? One of the reasons many writers find it easier to follow the old advice – write what you know about. So we choose scenarios with which we at least have some knowledge and understanding, though we must not allow this to inhibit us from pushing our writing boundaries through research and use of our imagination.


Now for the bookshop.

When I began to write it dawned on me just how little I knew about even quite basic stuff in the world around me. And yes, the Internet is an invaluable resource but with many things there is no substitute for consulting with those who are expert in their field.


How long till the next event we’re attending?

I guess as writers become better known it becomes easier to attract help, though some, judging by acknowledgement pages, are lucky enough to have family and close friends to provide the expertise. Lin Anderson, for instance, had a head start in crime novels as her father was in the police so opening the door to contacts there.

Now what do my family and friends excel in?


It’s been a really enjoyable day. Can’t wait till next year.

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Jamón, whisky and sculpture


Once again the tents have gone up in Edinburgh’s Charlotte Square, the walkways laid, bookshop and bars stocked, hospitality spaces decked with tubs of flowers, toilets positioned, and the central area supplied with watching-the-world-go-by chairs for some of the throngs anticipated.


The entrance to the Edinburgh International Book Festival, held every years in the gardens in the centre of Charlotte Square in Edinburgh’s 250 year old New Town.

The International Book Festival is underway, running for over two weeks and hosting over 750 events. The book festival vies for attention while the Edinburgh International Arts Festival, the Military Tattoo and the Fringe are also in full swing, attracting hundreds of thousand of visitors to the city. Last year the Fringe alone featured 50,459 performances of 3,314 shows in 313 venues during its 25 days.


Literary pubs that span the literature of hundreds of years are sufficient to merit their own tour.

Husband and I had received an invitation to a book launch, not in the tented village of the book festival, but not far from it in Waterstones, the well-known book shop, at the west end of Princes Street. More about that in another post.


Even the local seagulls like to get in on the act, strutting their stuff and squawking a verse or two from the platform of a local worthy.

We left ourselves plenty time for during festival time parking is non existent and roads can be gridlocked, so we had almost an hour to wander along George Street, much of which has been closed to traffic to accommodate open air cafes.


This is usually a busy thoroughfare with parking down the centre of the street.


Numerous patio heaters in evidence as Edinburgh’s climate is not quite Mediterranean.

The street’s Georgian architecture provides a classical backdrop to a tented area where artificial grass covers the tarmac of the road, and cars are replaced by tables and chairs.



George Street is a mixture of upmarket shops and businesses and residential accommodation, part of Edinburgh’s 250 year old New Town, a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Some of the bars bear the names of whisky brands – a high profile setting for them in a busy main thoroughfare closed for the festival, with cars and buses diverted.



Though neither is food forgotten.


Amongst the bars and cafes sit two mobile cinemas, one modern, one from the 1960s that had been driven up from Bicester near Oxford to show old film footage.


Always good to have a choice of places to go when the weather takes a turn for the worse.


Dating from the 1960s, this mobile cinema is names Audrey. No guesses why.

In the centre of the road stands a large horse’s head, similar in style but smaller than the thirty metre high Kelpies sculptures designed by Andy Scott, that form a gateway at the eastern entrance to the Forth and Clyde canal near Falkirk. The Kelpies commemorate and celebrate our horse-powered heritage, while the head in George Street was commissioned by Hamilton and Inches, a famous jewellers, to celebrate 150 years of business in Scotland’s capital city.


Hamilton and Inches shop can just be seen to the right of the photo, in navy with a black blind. Would love to know what will happen to the sculpture once the festival is finished. Hope a site is found somewhere where it can be enjoyed by everyone.

From George Street we wander round to Princes Street for the book launch, and afterwards stroll along towards the Mound to catch a bus, taking a photo of the Church of Scotland Assembly Rooms on the Mound…


Ooops! The Assembly Rooms somewhat obscured by the statue commemorating the Royal Scots Greys regiment.

and another view of the castle that sits on its rock like an elderly grand dame and her retinue watching over her subjects scurrying below.




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Sun, olives, lamb and baklava


On a hot summer evening in the Aegean olives have a zingy, comforting flavour that’s missing at home where they are merely really good. The same goes for watermelon. Served up free at many restaurants what is often a tasteless fruit in Scotland oozed honey sweet juice, and served chilled was wonderfully refreshing. Husband even made a drink with it and iced water.



Olives are a staple part of lives in many Mediterranean and Aegean countries, not only to eat and use in oil but also as a base for soaps and a variety of creams, lotions and potions developed over the centuries since the ancients doused their bodies with olive oil in bathhouses, and several thousand years before that.


Probably one of the best, if not the best, fillet steak I’ve ever had.

I was into my teens before I came across even a mention of olives, and then they were treated as something of a joke – a bit like garlic. A peculiar taste that had rolled across the Channel when some customs officer’s back was turned, landing up in a few high class clubs and restaurants. I was into my twenties before I first tasted them, on a holiday that was full of firsts. The first time I’d flown for a start. We were in what was then known as Jugoslavia. How the world has changed since then!


Interesting glass plate and fabulous ravioli, unfortunately there was only enough for a starter and the waiter didn’t feel I should have mentioned the fact. We didn’t return to that restaurant – lots of others to chose from.


This was husband’s mixed grill at the same restaurant, which cost less than my teensy plate of pasta. Luckily husband had so much he gave me some of his to make up for my lack of food. We didn’t hang around for a sweet but paid and walked along the road to an Italian ice cream place where we enjoyed a wonderful ice.

Now fridge and cupboards have numerous jars of olives, and when abroad olives and bread are our favoured starter to a meal. My family have got used to a mother who asks for some good olives rather than boxes of chocolates. But I have to admit, that when eaten in the sun they do have an additional attraction.


We couldn’t be in Greece and not have moussaka – and very good it was too.

Surprisingly, lamb in Pefkos was plentiful and fairly cheap when eaten in restaurants, as well as wonderfully sweet. Often it was served traditionally, slow cooked like Kleftico, or with bacon, or in a rosemary sauce.


Not unlike kleftico – a traditional dish of succulent leg of lamb, slowly cooked – but this was lamb with bacon. Delicious.


Lamb with rosemary sauce. Many vegetables in Pefkos were few and far between, probably because much was imported from mainland Greece, so it wasn’t uncommon to get what were obviously frozen ones. Nor was it uncommon to have rice and potatoes with meat. Again possibly because potatoes have to be brought it, or maybe this is just a tradition.

Sometimes it was grilled as chops, or served on skewers. But always it was good.


Lamb on skewers served with yogurt, potatoes and and pitta bread with a mixture of onions and peppers, and dressed with an olive. Wonderful.


Five lamb chops. I thought I’d never eat my way through them – but I did, and enjoyed every last bite.

My surprise arose from the habitat. When we looked at the bare rocks of the hills, with little vegetation, and no sign of sheep, we wondered where the lamb came from, but were assured there were plenty in the south of the island. In the Scottish Borders we have rolling hills, green grass as far as the eye can see, and millions of sheep. Yet we eat little of it (presumably much is exported) and when we do buy it the cost is steep, with restaurants charging much more than in Rhodes. So I made the most of it and ate my way through many of the lamb dishes available.


We were told that the spare ribs on the menu weren’t pork but goat, so we thought we’d try it. Cooked on a grill they were very tasty.

Goats we did see from the bus, munching sparse clumps of dry vegetation amongst the rocks. We had the chance to taste goat one evening, cooked on the grill, and went for it. Husband thought it tasted like a cross between beef and lamb, I thought it more like pork. Whatever, it made a main course with a difference.


Husband had grilled sea bass one evening. Not being particularly fond of fish I didn’t join him – just as well as the amount of bones even he found daunting.


Greek salad complete with a chunk of Feta cheese.


Another evening we opted for prawn salad as a starter, the prawns coming from the island of Symi which we we had visited in October.


And then there was Spitaki restaurant’s own dolmades. A mix of pork and lamb with nuts and other ingredients wrapped in vine leaves that grew in the owner’s garden, and served with yogurt and a black olive.

Baklava, like olives, has a long history, its origins claimed by both Turkey and Greece. Layers of Filo pastry filled with a mixture of chopped, sweetened nuts and drizzled with syrup or honey. It should be sickly sweet, and it was when I’ve eaten it previously, but the baklavas I tasted in Pefkos, though all slightly different, were gorgeous and helped replace energy lost in the heat.


Gorgeous – and I say that as someone who prefers olives to chocolates!

Sometimes it was served with a scoop of ice cream, sometimes on its own or with a few artistic swirls of garnish. At Spitaki restaurant it was occasionally served with a sparkler for an extra zing. Very seventies, but it still made me laugh and feel special.


The very sight of this transports me back to warm evenings under the bougainvillea.

As a change from baklava one evening I was given a similar filo pastry desert but instead of nuts the filling was a sort of custard. Good, but not as moreish as the nuts variety.


Oof! My mouth is watering.

On another evening I was told a special sweet was being made for me. Again, I don’t know the name, but have made variations several times since returning home as it couldn’t be simpler or more delicious. Yogurt (I use the Turkish yogurt from our supermarket as it has the creamy flavour of what I had in Pefkos) drizzled with runny honey and topped with walnuts. I have substituted nectarines with some crushed almonds for the nuts, and it still tasted extraordinarily good.


The local wine was extremely drinkable.

Our meals were accompanied by a carafe of local wine, usually dry red but occasionally we opted for white. And a bottle of water. And one evening we were presented with glasses of Masticha of Chios Liqueur courtesy of the restaurant.

One final ingredient that made all these dishes and meals so unforgettable: the warm, friendly people who greeted us and brought the dishes to our tables. A return to the restaurant brought smiles, waves, chatter about the dishes, how they were cooked, the ingredients, gravitating to stories of families and villages, sons and jobs, travels and family homes. Their openness and generosity will long be remembered.



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Look what arrived today

IMG_1540 copy

Wasn’t expecting the delivery for another few days – so an exciting surprise.

Front cover small onlineWaiting for Change is my fourth novel. It is early 2007, the run-up to three exciting years in Scottish political history. For Davina – wife, and mother of teenage sons Duncan and Jason – life and politics forcefully collide when her husband Myles announces his intention to stand for the Westminster parliament.

Davina’s state of flux heralds a major earthquake, bringing tea, blethers, a belly dancer and an insistent reporter into her life, along with a much darker and disturbing aspect. Drawn against her will into Myles’ campaign, the return of her father, who walked out on her and her mother thirty-two years previously, adds a knotty complication. Can she forgive, and accept the gambler back into her life?

As Myles settles into campaign routine, Jason along with girlfriend Tania and her mother Sandra, add their own slubbed strands to events already made jittery by queues of angry depositors intent on taking their life savings from collapsing banks, financial markets in meltdown and politicians who stomp and vacillate. With the approach of the 2010 general election, Davina copes with Myles’ doubts in his target Scottish Borders seat, Sandra’s clashes with her former husband, and the trauma of media as well as physical attacks, to survive the experience, craving more, though with one crucial difference.

It is against a background of economic uncertainty and political change that Waiting for Change plays out, wending its way through years and events, personal and national crises, to the 2010 Westminster election – three years that radically change the political landscape of Scotland, three years that shake Davina from her comfortable rut and alter both her memories and expectations of life.




All are available from Twinlaw publishing – and from Amazon as paperbacks and ebooks.



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We decided to brave the heat on a trip to Lindos, a place we had heard much about, opting to take the bus in as being higher up you can see much more. This was quite an experience, zig-zagging up narrow mountain roads with hairpin bends where it often seemed certain the bus would hit a wall or outcrop of rock. But the driver had driven this route many times and knew how to navigate obstacles.

We were dropped at the bus terminus above Lindos, and as we hadn’t heard of the shuttle bus (50 cents to take you up or down the hill), we wandered down the uneven surface into the town. Somewhat hair-raising as the road is narrow and twisty with no pavement and traffic zooms past at a rate of knots making us cower into the side, almost choking us with fumes hovering in the hot, still air.


We noted the taxi rank about half way down for future use, only to discover there were also taxis available in the main square that heaved with traffic. The heat was intense. We were later told that Lindos, set in a bowl in the landscape, is the warmest place in Rhodes, often up to eight degrees hotter than nearby Pefkos which is more open.



The buildings of the old town cling like white limpets to the ecru rock. Narrow paved streets, often shaded by bird’s wing canopies, are lined with shops selling colourful items of clothing and jewellery, although many seemed to sell the same goods.


Here, out of the glare of the sun, it was slightly cooler, but the respite was brief and soon we were out in the open again on a path headed down towards the beach. The sun beat down, reflecting off the pristine white walls of houses, sapping energy.





For an old town that we understood allowed no traffic within its confines, we soon learned to jump into doorways and flatten ourselves against walls to allow small four wheeled trucks to hurtle by, or motor scooters with large trailers, or Lindos taxis – donkeys taking self-conscious looking visitors up to the acropolis.


No way anyone would get me on one of these, and far too hot to make the climb, so we settled for viewing the ruins from afar. But we watched where we placed our feet as donkeys leave calling cards though a guy does wander around with a broom and deep scoop-like shovel.


Despite being a conservation area, wires for electricity and telephone, often bandaged with ragged tape, twist and weave around buildings and across streets at not much above head height, adding unnecessary clutter to photographs. I gave up eventually, accepting this as part of the Greek landscape, just like the heap of earth and rubble beneath the pine trees onto which our hotel balcony looked. Or the untidy derelict sites, overgrown with weeds cheek-by-jowl with upmarket mansions boasting pristine white walls and immaculate gardens, protected by security gates.


A seat in the shade of a tree overlooking the bay provided a welcome stopping place while we swigged water, took photographs and watched the antics of those swimming and playing games in the shallow enamelled blue waters of this natural harbour.


For those who like beach experiences, the golden sand looked clean, though the cheek-by-jowl umbrellas testified to the number of visitors making the long, hot trek from hotels at the top of the hill, or driving to an adjacent car parking area (more fumes).


The heat didn’t lessen, nor did the strong smell of something very like sewage that bedevilled the area of our seat, so we made our way back through the streets of shops and rooftop restaurants, gearing up for the evening’s action (dinner whilst watching the sun go down is high on most visitors’ lists of attractions), to the square where we sat and ate an ice cream.



We watched a trader weigh melons and watermelons with a Heath Robinson set of scales hanging from a long metal pole protruding from the back of his pickup, and debated whether to take the shuttle bus back up the hill to catch our bus to Pefkos. The heat won and we staggered a few metres to a nearby taxi, to slump into its sleek black air-conditioned interior while (for nine euros) it whisked us back to our hotel and a long cool drink.



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