cove?' Sherry asked, pouring breakfast coffee into
her cup.
'I think that would be pushing my luck an inch too far,' Zoe admitted with
utter truth, at the same time stifling a pang of totally unsuitable regret. 'I
thought I'd do some sightseeing instead, before it gets too warm. Discover
what Livassi has to offer.' And, maybe, meet Uncle Stavros …
'Wel , don't blink,' Sherry advised. 'Or you might miss it.' Then, relenting,
'Actually, Livassi's really pretty, and the church is lovely with some terrific
frescos. But they like you to cover your shoulders if you plan to visit'
'I've got a shirt to put on.' Zoe delved into her bag, and produced it, checked
in black and white, with long sleeves, and voluminous enough to wear as a
beach cover-up later.
'And watch out for the icon,' Sherry added as she turned away. 'It's
supposed to help women get pregnant so you might want to give it a wide
berth.'
'That's OK.' Zoe tried a nonchalant shrug. 'I'm total y celibate.'
'That's what they al say,' said Sherry darkly.
And that, thought Zoe, is what I have to believe, and keep to. At al costs.
The hill up to the main square was steep, and narrow enough to force her to
leap into doorways as cars and scooters roared heedlessly past.
By the time she reached the top, she was hot and breathless, but she had to
admit that the square with its Venetian-style colonnade and small Byzantine
church was wel worth the effort.
There were tables in the middle of the square under the trees, and benches,
but, as yet, they were unoccupied. Perhaps the games of backgammon
didn't take place at weekends, she reflected, disappointed. Wel , there
would be other days.
She took some photographs, then, pul ing on her shirt, went into the cool,
incense-laden atmosphere of the church. A bearded priest in dark robes
replacing candles in tall holders gave her a lightning glance, then made her
a slight bow of unsmiling approval.
She trod round slowly, her sandals noiseless on the stone flags, looking at
the murals that depicted scenes from the life of Christ, which she
recognised, and various angular, wistful-eyed saints, which she didn't.
There were numerous icons in niches round the wal s, all of them apparently
venerated, so she had no idea which one to avoid.
In any case, she thought, her mouth twisting, it was a real man she needed
to shun, not a gilded representation painted on wood.
The heat was like a blow from a clenched fist as she emerged into the
sunlight She ordered an iced drink made from fresh lemons at a kafeneion
under the colonnade, and settled down under its striped awning to look
around her.
One of the tables under the trees was occupied now by a group of elderly
men hunched round a board, their hands moving with incredible speed as
they threw dice and moved counters. But which of them, if any, was Uncle
Stavros? And she could hardly interrupt their concentration in order to ask,
she decided wryly.
She retrieved from her bag the small guide book she'd bought on her way
up the hill, and began to flick through it.
But apart from extol ing the wondrous peace and quiet of the island, and the
fact that it was used as a retreat by some of the rich and famous, there was
not a great deal the author could say.
There was a bay where Odysseus might or might not have paused for
breath on the last leg of his epic journey back to Ithaca, and which bore his
name on the off chance. There was a ruined monastery, and a couple of tiny
fishing vil ages with wonderful views over the Ionian Sea. There were any
number of walks, none of which would take more than a few hours to
complete, including one up the steep slopes of Mount Edira, with even more
breathtaking views.
And there were the Silver Caves. These, she read, were situated on the
other side of the island, and led to a smal subterranean lake. Some mineral
in the rock gave it a metal ic sheen, and affected the colour of the water, too,
hence the name.
her cup.
'I think that would be pushing my luck an inch too far,' Zoe admitted with
utter truth, at the same time stifling a pang of totally unsuitable regret. 'I
thought I'd do some sightseeing instead, before it gets too warm. Discover
what Livassi has to offer.' And, maybe, meet Uncle Stavros …
'Wel , don't blink,' Sherry advised. 'Or you might miss it.' Then, relenting,
'Actually, Livassi's really pretty, and the church is lovely with some terrific
frescos. But they like you to cover your shoulders if you plan to visit'
'I've got a shirt to put on.' Zoe delved into her bag, and produced it, checked
in black and white, with long sleeves, and voluminous enough to wear as a
beach cover-up later.
'And watch out for the icon,' Sherry added as she turned away. 'It's
supposed to help women get pregnant so you might want to give it a wide
berth.'
'That's OK.' Zoe tried a nonchalant shrug. 'I'm total y celibate.'
'That's what they al say,' said Sherry darkly.
And that, thought Zoe, is what I have to believe, and keep to. At al costs.
The hill up to the main square was steep, and narrow enough to force her to
leap into doorways as cars and scooters roared heedlessly past.
By the time she reached the top, she was hot and breathless, but she had to
admit that the square with its Venetian-style colonnade and small Byzantine
church was wel worth the effort.
There were tables in the middle of the square under the trees, and benches,
but, as yet, they were unoccupied. Perhaps the games of backgammon
didn't take place at weekends, she reflected, disappointed. Wel , there
would be other days.
She took some photographs, then, pul ing on her shirt, went into the cool,
incense-laden atmosphere of the church. A bearded priest in dark robes
replacing candles in tall holders gave her a lightning glance, then made her
a slight bow of unsmiling approval.
She trod round slowly, her sandals noiseless on the stone flags, looking at
the murals that depicted scenes from the life of Christ, which she
recognised, and various angular, wistful-eyed saints, which she didn't.
There were numerous icons in niches round the wal s, all of them apparently
venerated, so she had no idea which one to avoid.
In any case, she thought, her mouth twisting, it was a real man she needed
to shun, not a gilded representation painted on wood.
The heat was like a blow from a clenched fist as she emerged into the
sunlight She ordered an iced drink made from fresh lemons at a kafeneion
under the colonnade, and settled down under its striped awning to look
around her.
One of the tables under the trees was occupied now by a group of elderly
men hunched round a board, their hands moving with incredible speed as
they threw dice and moved counters. But which of them, if any, was Uncle
Stavros? And she could hardly interrupt their concentration in order to ask,
she decided wryly.
She retrieved from her bag the small guide book she'd bought on her way
up the hill, and began to flick through it.
But apart from extol ing the wondrous peace and quiet of the island, and the
fact that it was used as a retreat by some of the rich and famous, there was
not a great deal the author could say.
There was a bay where Odysseus might or might not have paused for
breath on the last leg of his epic journey back to Ithaca, and which bore his
name on the off chance. There was a ruined monastery, and a couple of tiny
fishing vil ages with wonderful views over the Ionian Sea. There were any
number of walks, none of which would take more than a few hours to
complete, including one up the steep slopes of Mount Edira, with even more
breathtaking views.
And there were the Silver Caves. These, she read, were situated on the
other side of the island, and led to a smal subterranean lake. Some mineral
in the rock gave it a metal ic sheen, and affected the colour of the water, too,
hence the name.
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