It must be a funny thing, to live with the constant hum of crickets – like tinnitus, I suppose. A long time today I sat listening to those crickets, under the shade of the old olive trees in the garden. We’ve been slow and sluggish today – fragile from devilishly strong wine, bottled like vegetable oil and sold for €2 a piece.
We tried to drive up Mount Aenos in the morning, but it was hot and we kept on getting lost on roads that turned into gravel tracks. Up in the hills we passed a crumbling village – little left but walls falling in on themselves and one stark white church – its garden swept and walls freshly painted. I wonder how many people ever hear its bell, considering the only inhabitants we found were mountain goats and a skinny dog.
In the end, we gave the day to the heat, and only when the sun began to set did we venture to our cove for a swim. Hair still damp and skin salty, we ate dinner with the mosquitos. Stuffed long peppers, grilled local sausages followed by a platter of swordfish, octopus, whitebait and fat prawns, their shells thin and brittle like caramel.