Some familiar names here in this just released collection. Check out the right hand side of the dust jacket. Then go and buy a copy!
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Sunday, July 13, 2014
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
Where's my axe?
Saturday, July 05, 2014
I was on the beach the other day when someone said, ‘Is there a fire up there?’ From the mountains, in a long swathe, the sky was stained umber. ‘Probably the power station,’ said someone else, and the matter dropped from my mind (The power station up the coast often spews out a filthy plume – probably when it’s ramping up output to compensate when the wind turbines have stopped ... because it’s too windy).
On a following morning Tim phoned me from Armeni to check if everything was all right at Papagianades – if the fire had reached that far. He then described the Armageddon occurring in the mountains behind my house and to which I had been oblivious until then. Only after that phone call did I walk outside and notice the helicopters flying over to pick up tons of seawater to drop on this fire.
After hearing that the fire was out, I determined to go up and look, and take some pictures. I was especially concerned because the fire had burned across the areas I had been walking over during the previous months. The following morning turned out to be unseasonably cloudy, so good for a walk. I charged up my camera, found the bloody thing had decided to give up on me (the lens comes out then immediately goes back again – maybe a new battery required?) so picked up my Ipad and took that. The walk I took was a 6.5 mile circuit that sort of encompassed the fire. At no point, once I was outside of Papagianades, was the fire damage out of sight.
On the way up to the top of the mountain about a mile behind my house.
The view back towards Papagianades.
Up at the top. The wind turbines had been protected since they were surrounded by unburned growth. Chunks of melted fire hose scattered here and there were testament to the battle fought up here over a few days.
Some areas looking like those Var and Saul tramped through.
Burned out hill lying maybe two miles away from where I was standing.
View along the line of the turbines.
Must do a compare and contrast with this picture. Earlier in this blog you'll find exactly the same view, though in the Spring...
A couple along the line of the turbines again.
Burnt out slopes on the way down to Handras.
Slightly sick looking olive grove. Not sure how far beyond what you see here the fire went. It might have gone on for miles more.
Looking back towards the mountains from Handras.
Fire tenders in Handras.
One of the many sentinel tenders parked all around the fire. Apparently they stay in the area for days just in case the fire flares up again.
Wednesday, July 02, 2014
I’ve had quite an odd day today. Mr Insomnia’s opposite Mr Brick-in-Sock visited me last night and cold-cocked me for eight hours. I then got up and had a large breakfast whereupon he crept up behind me and knocked me out again for a further two hours. I felt absolutely knackered. I guess this was payback for lack of sleep and miles of swimming over the last few weeks. However, by midday I was starting to come around and started working on the copy editor’s notes and queries for Dark Intelligence.
Now I’ve finished off the replies to the copy editor, done some ironing, swept up outside and am now wondering what to do with myself. It’s time, I guess, to get back to working through the next Transformation book: Factory Station Room 101 (working title until my editor tells me its too long, or something). Somewhere, in one of the notepads on this desk, I wrote down the page number I’d reached...
Friday, June 27, 2014
Jolly good, Mr Insomnia has paid a visit again and tipped me out of bed after 3.5 hours sleep, and his visit, combined with a house temperature of 27.5C, means that’s my lot for tonight. I will, therefore, write a waffly blog post. But where to begin?
I mentioned a few posts back how after walking a silly distance with the sweat pouring out, my body later responded with painful leg cramps and a subsequent demand for very salty food. Today I had a similar experience with my body registering its objection to how I’ve been treating it.
I’ve been walking for miles and swimming for miles and I haven’t been eating much. Now I was saying that I put myself on a diet because I wanted to lose weight, and because after fighting a losing battle over most of a year, losing weight was a battle I could win. However, it is not as simple as that. Spending many months in close proximity with someone dying of bowel cancer can fundamentally change your relationship with food, believe me. I have to admit that I don’t like it very much now. It’s fuel; something I must ingest if I am to continue functioning.
So, where was I? The day before yesterday I walked a silly distance in a silly temperature then followed that up with a couple of long swims. I must have burned many calories, while my intake, including beer and the two gyros I forced myself to eat, was about 2000, maybe 2500. Apparently, according to an online calculator, my BMR (basal metabolic rate i.e. how much my body burns while at rest) is 1641 calories while to maintain my present activity I need to consume 1476 so in total 3117. As you can see there’s a deficit, and this was on a day I forced myself to eat extra. On other days I have been just as active and eaten much less.
Yesterday morning, in an attempt to stop myself turning into a complete raggety arse, I made myself breakfast. I had three boiled eggs and toast. I didn’t go for a long walk (with the temperature at its present level I think that’s over until Autumn) but I did swim a distance of about three-quarters of a mile (I must check this on Google Earth). Then in the evening, I decided to take a walk over to a restaurant called Stratos and have a meal there.
I ate a pork shank with rice, vegetables and garlic bread and afterwards sat there feeling like I’d just had a light snack. I said I was still hungry and the chef, Van, suggested barbecued ribs. I agreed thinking this would just be a small plate of ribs. Another meal arrived of a rack of ribs in hot sauce with chips and vegetables. I ate that as well, polished off all but one piece of the garlic bread and ate all the complimentary watermelon too. At this point, at any time in the last twenty years, I would have been feeling tired and perhaps a bit sick, while in the last ten years my gut would have been bulging over my trousers and I would have been burping acid. As it was, I felt more alert, stronger, and was baffled about where the food had gone.
My body had obviously been crying out for the missing calories my fucked-up mind has been denying it. And, I guess, at some point during today, it’ll demand the sleep that’s been denied by the same malfunctioning organ.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
This Wednesday’s walk was up Butterfly Gorge and we were aiming for the second church up near a place called Orino, after which we would either walk all the way back down again, or walk a further two kilometres to the road and call for a lift back down. I’d already heard that it was going to be hot on this day and as Chris, Brian, Kostas and I set out through Koutsouras Park I was already broiling.
This wasn’t a great walk. Yes, there’s beautiful scenery and interesting stuff to see, but a number of factors killed the pleasure for me and the others.
There’s a lot of growth in the gorge which would have been fine if we were walking in the winter. As it was we were in shorts and after stomping through low thorny growths, occasionally going off-piste to end up in Livingstone territory, and pushing through bushes and bamboo to try to locate the trail, there was not one of us who wasn’t leaking the red stuff.
Add in a steadily climbing temperature, my hangover and general bad temper, and this wasn’t a great walk for me. I couldn’t even shed my shirt because of the protection it offered from surrounding growth or, for the same reason, my sunglasses when we were tramping through gloomy areas. Even Brian, ex Royal Navy and ex Glasgow riot cop, was flagging by the time we reached the first church. I think being speared in the back and nearly through his ear by the rough end of a bamboo didn’t do his demeanour any favours either.
From the first church we tramped onwards, but no one was having any fun, especially when we kept losing the trail. Also, the next stage of the walk was in the open and partially mountain climbing, while we were running out of water and it was very hot. We turned back ... except for Mad Dog Kostas who decided he was going to go all the way to the top and try to catch a lift down on the road.
On the way down, and after I nearly keeled over with a dizzy spell, I knew we’d made the right decision, though there was some guilt about allowing Kostas to continue by himself (this started as a walk in the park but certainly wasn’t one later, and such walks can be dangerous). Back down in a bar in Koutsouras Chris remained in contact with Kostas and, as he reached the top of gorge some twenty minutes after we reached the bottom, we set out to pick him up.
As we drove back to Makrigialos the temperature was such that if you put your arm out the window it was like putting in front of a fan heater.
After cooling down a bit in The Rock, with a beer, I looked at the flat calm sea and knew that despite being knackered I had to have a big swim. I did my usual route: to the harbour back along the buoys to the point where the jet skis go in then back to the beach (maybe three-quarters of a mile or a mile). Kostas was there, and is a good swimmer, so I suggested we have a bit of a race around the same circuit at some point. He was a bit blasé about the idea whereupon I made the mistake of making chicken sounds. He went off after his swim and I crashed on the beach. An hour or so later I heard a voice behind me, ‘Hey, poseur.’ Oops.While I had been expecting some race in a day or so he was all, ‘Let’s do it now.’ What the hell.
We raced around the circuit again, the winner the one who touched a Carlsberg sign on the beach first. I started off pulling ahead a little but then he accelerated. By the time we reached the harbour he was twenty feet ahead. Later, so he tells me, he saw someone swimming to shore and thought it was me giving up. As it was, I was on the other side of him. Still, he reached the shore about 30 feet ahead of me, sauntered up the beach with a big grin on his face and touched the sign. In my favour I have to point out that I was four beers ahead of him, and am 15 years older...
Oh, and in the gorge I only saw one butterfly, so I don’t know what that’s all about.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
On Sunday morning, I woke to a beep from my mobile and checking it found a text from Chris at The Rock. Did I fancy walking up Pervolakia Gorge and, if so, to be at Bay View at 9.00. At first, I thought it must be a text somehow delayed from the previous week. Then on checking saw the time stamp was from 1.00 that morning. My next thought, knowing that Mad Dog Kostas was at The Rock the previous evening, was that this was late night madness to be regretted in the morning. Even so, I began preparing for the walk. Obviously, I have been working on the theory that if you smack yourself in the calf muscles with a hammer the pain is all in the mind – a subjective experience of the universe fully open to interpretation or one I could ignore.
Later Chris confirmed that the walk was on. Two English guys from Newcastle way wanted to walk the gorge and he was taking them.
As I drove to Bay View, I wondered if these two were prepared for what was to come: if they had brought water, had the right footwear ... had brought hats. I briefly met John and Rob at Bay View then again at the car park below Kapsa Monastery as we set out. Here are, from the left, Chris, John and Rob:
During all this, at no point were the words ‘fell’ and ‘runner’ mentioned. Chris set out at a blistering pace that my inner masochist enjoyed, while Rob and John strolled along on what one of them called a ‘social walk’. Talking to the two, I learned that they like to do stuff like tramping for miles through two-foot deep snow, walking up Ben Nevis, or shaking the cobwebs out with frequent six-mile runs. Then, of course, there’s the fell running: 26 miles across marsh land – the kind of running that might make your average London Marathon runner pall. It soon became apparent that no, these two did not spend their holidays here seeing Crete from a sun bed.
We reached the top of the gorge in 1.5 hours, which is good going, then stopped for a break in the Kafenion (only one beer each for Chris and I).
Next, we climbed another 150 metres to find the goat trail down, which was what Rob and John wanted to locate.
On the way back down, we found the ‘nice cave’ that we had somehow missed on the previous walk.
From the kafenion back to the cars was another 1.5 hours. Despite the speed at which we did the walk this time, I had found it easier. Perhaps this was because I had prepared with a rehydration drink beforehand, or perhaps it was simply that the lack of walking since my last trip up this gorge had allowed my body to recover. But y’know, I’m 53. The other three are all retirees, some in their 60s, doing physical stuff that would result in many much younger people being carted off on a stretcher.
Which is one illustration of why I get immensely irritated by the words, 'But I'm too old...'