SICILY: Of Greek Temples and Oranges

Nigel and I had come to Sicily (by train and ferry so as not to contribute to climate change)

I had predicted my favourite trip would be to the row of magnificent Greek temples ranged along a ridge near the town of Agrigento.

Sure enough when we got there, they displayed those graceful architectural proportions, much written about, especially the extraordinarily well preserved Temple of Concordia. The ruins of the less complete temples were picturesque, flickering with lizards, and with many tiny jewel-like flowers bobbing in the breeze from the sea. Incredibly impressive were the vast statues of the telamons, giants who once help up the architrave of the Temple of Zeus.

When we could take in no more, however, we descended to the Garden of Kolymbethra at one end of the Valley of the Temples. Down in a cool river gorge, it recreates a Sicilian small-holding.

We were dried out, and it was good to see frogs floating in a water cistern and to walk beneath fragrant blossom. Serins brightened the air with their song.

Some of the trees were laden with oranges. It was uncertain whether we were allowed to eat them or not, but Nigel and I did, two each. Each orange was an explosion of juice and crowded my mouth with intense flavour.

So although this was the day when I had encountered the remains of six extraordinary Greek temples, what I found myself saying to Nigel was, ‘I shall never forget these oranges.’ 

Girl back

Carenza has been thinking outside the box. 

Her workplace is fully remote. There is no office. 

So if one can work from a flat or a cafe, why not a train or an air BnB?

Carenza was hoping to meet up with university friends in Tbilisi, but was trying to limit her air travel.

So she would work from home while travelling all across Europe.

Her five week solo trip would take her along many railroads less traveled. Not to mention bus trips on winding roads through snowy mountains.

As when she went travelling alone to south east Asia, she gave us a copy of her itinerary. As before, we had no idea what we could do to help if anything went wrong.

Off she went.

To curb my fretting, Carenza rang regularly - 'All is well'. 

However, she forgot I follow her on Instagram and posted an account of hitches and horrors, both major and minor.

My hair stood on end. 

Even when she reached Tbilisi, their mountain walking was blocked by an avalanche. When she returned to the UK she travelled via Armenia, landing her only eight miles from the Iran border on the day when Israel launched an attack on Iran.

However, now she is back, returning on the day she promised, with all her fingers and toes still attached. And I am glad.

'Would you do it again,' I asked. 

Not even the tiniest pause.

'Oh yes,' she said.

Lost property

The other week I had a crazy time where a lot of things were in play.

I was preoccupied.

I had just been doing a printing course with Carenza and it was the end of a long day and I was heading home.

As the train pulled out of St Pancras I looked out of the window and had the shock of recognition - that familiar backpack under the bench was mine.

I stood up and said ‘No’ and everybody in the coach looked at me.

I managed to refrain from pulling the emergency cord.

I patted myself down – purse phone and keys were in my pockets. 

Should I get off at the next stop and go back?

 But the trains were very sparse due to engineering works – I had already had a long wait.   I would just resign myself to the loss of the bag, now quite old and faded.

However, as soon as I passed the point of no return, I began to recall the things in the bag which I valued.

My Swiss army credit card (like a pen knife but cooler)

A compact backup phone battery Nigel had sourced

But the thing that had me saying ‘Oh’ (to the further alarm of my fellow passengers) was the gift Carenza had just given - a craft-market hairslide in my colours and a card she had made me herself.

Once home, I gloomily registered with lost property.

There were no matches.

A whole ten days later, I received an email saying the bag had been handed in. It didn't refer to the contents.  

Nigel would pick it up on his way back from work.   But when he got to Lost Property it was shut. 

Eventually, nearly two weeks after losing it, I could bear the suspense no longer, took the train and picked it up myself. I could barely wait to unzip it. 

Everything was still there. Including my lovely card and hairslide. 

I asked about the person who handed it in, but their details were not available. 

Whoever you are, thank you. You've restored my faith in human nature. X

 

The curse of Mr Sniffles

Our train journey to Barcelona took six hours. We had delightful window seats in the upper storey of the train and enjoyed watching the views and getting some work done.

Except for one thing. In the seat just behind Nigel was a man relentlessly blowing his nose, coughing and sneezing.

For the whole of the journey.

 I remembered far too late that I brought masks in my bag for just such an eventuality.

We couldn't see him but nicknamed him Mr Sniffles. At one point we heard him get up, probably to visit the buffet car. We both peered to see what our Nemesis looked like. He was in early middle age and wearing cream jeans ripped to reveal what appeared to be black rubber leggings underneath. On his top half, a cream sweater with a motif knitted into it in silver lurex. It was a skull and crossbones.

Miraculously Nigel did not contract the cold, but a few days later when I felt my throat grow sore, I remembered the skull and crossbones, harbinger, if not of death, at least of a nasty cold.

PS just wanted to say that this could equally have happened on a plane and wasn't a consequence of train travel. Perhaps Mr Sniffles was also an eco warrior!