Read The Santorini Summer Online
Authors: Christine Shaw
The Santorini Summer
©Christine Shaw
Christine Shaw has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This edition was published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd
The pilot brings the plane in fast, and brakes hard, because the runway at Monolithos is very short, and the wheels screech against the hot tarmac.
‘Okay, Nan?’ queries Alexa anxiously, taking my hand.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, ‘just a little tired.’
I’m not afraid of flying, take-off or landing. In fact, I’m a Frequent Flyer. No, the tears in my eyes and my white knuckles have another cause. I first arrived on Santorini by boat in 1956; since then, every time I set foot on the island I have to work hard to keep my emotions in check.
The heat hits us as we step out of the plane, and the wind pulls at our clothes. Alexa takes a deep breath.
‘Sun,’ she sighs, tilting her face up.
I know exactly what she means.
The hire car is a smart little Peugeot.
‘I’ll drive, shall I?’ Alexa says. ‘You know the way, so it’s best if you navigate.’
‘Have you ever changed gear with your right hand before?’ I ask, nervously, forgetting that my granddaughter has driven on the right-hand side of the road in Italy since she was seventeen.
‘Of course I have. And I know to drive on the right.’
‘The confidence of the young,’ I murmur, remembering another young woman, long ago, who once clambered out of a fishing boat and fearlessly placed her hand in that of the young man who waited for her on the quay.
Alexa sets off without a qualm, unconcerned by the macho driving style of the Greeks. I still find myself catching my breath when we are overtaken on bends or draw parallel with vehicles from the opposite direction who are taking more than their fair share of the road.
‘It gets no better,’ I murmur. ‘They’re still dreadful drivers.’
Alexa laughs. ‘This is fun, Nan. I love these mountain roads.’
We climb up towards Fira, getting sandwiched between the tourists’ coaches and the local buses and Alexa catches her first sight of the
caldera
.
‘Wow! Oh, that’s stunning!’
It still has that effect on me, too, after all these years. Nea Kameni, the youngest volcanic cone, rises out of the turquoise sea on our left, dwarfing the older Palia Kameni. Behind the cone lies the island of Thirassia. Two cruise ships are anchored in the bay and from them, small craft ply their way to the port and its cable cars. In places you can clearly see the layers of lava in the crater edge below the town, which perches precariously on the top of the crater’s lip and cascades down its side. On our right lies the misty outline of the island of Anafi.
‘You said it was spectacular, but I didn’t know it would be so beautiful.’
‘Wait until you see the views from Oia and Imerovigli, but for now, please keep your eyes on the road,’ I beg, only half joking.
We fight through the traffic in the capital, and then on and up, past Firostephani,
past the outskirts of Imerovigli and further north toward Oia.
‘When you find somewhere safe, pull over and we’ll look at the view.’
I am enjoying her reaction, remembering my first sighting of these views, feeling again all the awe and amazement I felt then. We stop where the road is slightly less dangerous, leave the engine running and step out into the sparklingly clear air.
‘Oh my god, Nan. This is fantastic. You can see all around the tip of Santorini. Look at all those islands.’
‘You’re only seeing a fraction of the Cyclades group. We’ll stay at Oia tonight and tomorrow I’ll show you Fira and the Museum.’
‘Oh, Nan,’ she breathes. ‘Why haven’t I been to Greece before?’
‘Because your mother is Italian,’ I say, drily.
I wish I could find it in me to love my daughter-in-law. Cecilia is not stupid, unkind or ugly. She has been a good mother to Peter and Alexa and a good wife to Christopher. But I never got over my disappointment that she is
Italian
. Heaven knows, I introduced him to some lovely Greek girls. I took him with me to Greece at every opportunity, and we had Greek students staying at the house most years. He spoke Greek well enough to be able to conduct a courtship in that language, if necessary. But no, he meets an Italian girl while working in a restaurant one summer vacation, and that was that.
I, of all women, should understand, of course. I had my own
coup
de
foudre
, and nothing and no-one could have dissuaded me from following my heart. Christopher loves Cecilia with all his heart and I wish I could too. But her daughter, Alexa, is a different matter. Alexa has inherited her grandparents’ love of history, and now that she has seen Santorini I think I may be able to nurture in her the love of all things Greek, which I failed to rouse in Christopher.
I should have preferred to stay in one of the discreet little hotels in Imerovigli, which is so peaceful, but Alexa is nineteen and, although she is accompanying me at her own request, I feel it would be unfair to deprive her of the glamour of Oia, so I have booked us into a hotel there. Not one of the sugar-cube houses tumbling down the caldera, however. My legs are too old, now, to be negotiating all those steps every day. On the Internet I found a small but elegant hotel, which had been created from one of the beautiful Captain’s Houses just back from the caldera edge. It has retained a slightly faded exterior, keeping it true to its fellows, but inside it is all chic comfort, and its terrace has wonderful views over the sea. Alexa is thrilled.
‘Oh, Nan, this is fabulous. Wicked,’ she grins.
She’s heard me grumble about modern usage often enough to know what I feel about such expressions. But she hugs me, letting me know that she is teasing.
‘I just can’t wait to get into that pool. Do you mind if I have a quick swim?’
‘I’ll join you,’ I answer, determined to show her from the start that, although I object to slang, I’m not decrepit yet.
I need a short time to adjust to my feelings, and a swim, while seeming to be sociable, will give me an opportunity to be alone with my memories. No-one expects you to hold a conversation while swimming lengths. So, with relief, I sink into the warm water and close my eyes, allowing myself to remember.
It constantly amazes me that the truly memorable moments in life can be recalled as vividly as if watching a video recording, the intervening years having no effect upon the detail. The scents, colours, textures and emotions of fifty-one years ago are as graphic to me now as they were then. My first sight of Christos, the first time we touched, my first taste of Assyrtico, my first sunset at Oia; sensations and feelings come back to me now at will, pain and sweetness in equal amounts.
‘Right, that’s enough, I think. I’m going for a shower now, Nan. I’m starving.’
Alexa brings me back to the present. I resent her interruption, resent the necessity for being “normal”, for having to talk, to being old and sensible. But it doesn’t last. I climb out, pick up the towel and return to my room. It’s not Alexa’s fault. She has no idea that her old Nan was time-travelling, back to the days when she was young and lovely and desired. Back to the time when she held a precious, amazing gift, for just a short time, in her arms.
Showered and changed, we decide to stay in the hotel for dinner tonight. I’m too tired, too emotional to want to search the all too familiar streets for a suitable restaurant. I have made an effort, though, as I always do. I am wearing a smart dress and jewellery, and my hair is hanging artfully around my made up face. Standards. Alexa, too, has dressed appropriately. Unlike many of her contemporaries, she understands about “dressing for dinner”. That’s not to say she looks stuffy or out-of-date. Her top is low-cut, her skirt short and close-fitting, as is the fashion, her hair is freshly washed and beautifully styled, make-up subtle but effective. She wears gold hoops in her ears, her birthday watch on her left wrist and a slim gold bracelet on her right. She is gorgeous, and the waiter is smitten. She, little minx, affects a demure demeanour:
I
am
having
dinner
with
my
grandmother
,
and
am
not
aware
of
the
admiring
looks
you
are
giving
me
. Nevertheless, we are most attentively served.
Both tired after our journey, we don’t linger over coffee for long.
‘Night, Gran. Thank you for bringing me to this lovely place.’
She kisses me and I give her a hug in return. Grandmothers should not have favourite grandchildren, but I feel so much closer to Alexa than to Peter.
Although tired, I find it hard to sleep. Memories saturate my mind like a never-ending waterfall and I’m helpless to stop them. I see myself as I was then, a young woman in love, full of joy and optimism, waiting on the beach for the
Ariadne
to sail into the bay. Christos, tall, tanned and slender, every inch a glorious Minoan youth, waving to me from the deck. Such a short time we had.
*
Breakfast is served on the terrace where the sunlight is already so bright and strong that we wear our sunglasses for a purpose and not just for effect. The orange juice is freshly squeezed (bringing to my mind the over-sweet orange squash we were served in Crete all those years ago – orange trees all around and they gave us orange squash!) the croissants warm and the coffee just so. I feel content and at home.
So many years in the sun have made me un-English now. I crave the feeling of sunlight on my skin. It’s not just being warm. Central heating can do that for you, but my skin and my psyche seem to know the difference. It’s not the same sense of well-being I get from being in the sun. I know all about melanoma, and have been reasonably sensible my whole life, but at my age why should I deprive myself of something so comforting,
so
right
, so much part of my primitive self?
I explain my plan for the day. I will show Alexa the route back to Fira, where to drop me for the Conference Centre, where to park for the museum. We will enjoy the sights of the capital, window-shop at the town’s infamous jewellery stores, then return to Oia in time for the sunset, find a restaurant and enjoy an evening promenade. Alexa is agreeably content. She seems to have been instantly smitten by the island, and is already attuned to its rhythms.
We take the road back to Fira.
‘The Conference Centre is not very accessible by car, so you could drop me off just about here tomorrow, and I will walk to it. Now, if we are lucky we might be able to find a parking space near the cathedral, which will be perfect.’
Luck is on our side, and I am spared the steep walk up to the Museum of Prehistoric Thera, which Alexa wishes to visit tomorrow. She notes the opening hours and fee.
‘It’s very modern! I thought it would be a dusty old place.’
‘It was opened in 2000. You’ll find it houses many of the artefacts they found at Acrotiri because that site has had to be closed to visitors.’
I explain the tragedy which happened in 2005 when a protective canopy over the site collapsed, killing one tourist and injuring seven more. A new canopy was being built.
‘With luck it may be open again next year. You really ought to see the discoveries
there in
situ
.’
‘Oh, I shall definitely come back. I’d like to go to Crete, too. There’s a plane from Santorini, isn’t there?’
Luxury is so much the norm for this generation. ‘Yes, but you can also take a hydrofoil, or a slower ferry, from the new port at Athenios.’
We have started to walk the old, and now pedestrianised, path along the top of the caldera, with jewellers’ shops everywhere we look.
‘It’s amazing. How do they all stay in business?’
‘I’ve no idea. I certainly haven’t been much of a customer.’
No, but there was a jeweller’s shop in Oia, where we bought a ring, all those years ago. I glance at my right hand and polish the ring against my skirt.
‘They like their bling, don’t they? This stuff isn’t exactly subtle.’
I point out that amongst the gaudy glitter there are some simple, very beautiful pieces. Many are modern interpretations of ancient Greek designs. Like mine.
We walk on until we find ourselves in Fira’s area of clothes shops. The shops themselves are small, dark and cavernous, but samples of wares hang on plastic coat hangers surrounding the doors and on the outside walls.
‘Oh, wow! Nan, look at these.’
Alexa has found a shop where dresses and tops, in simple, very white cotton, hang outside. The designs are modern versions of Greek tunics, rather beautiful, and quite cheap.
‘Oh, I’m going to have to do a little shopping here,’ Alexa says.
I am reminded of another shopping trip, many years ago, on Crete, when Maureen Jarvis and I ventured timidly into Heraklion to find clothes better suited to the climate than those we had brought with us. There’s no timidity about Alexa. She picks out several outfits and goes into a changing room. I decide to wait outside and watch the tourists go by.