Honey

Apropos of fuck all, except that I am sitting here with a bowl of yoghurt, fresh walnuts and Cretan honey.

I once worked on Crete for a while, in a little village, loading fruit trucks from dawn through to lunch time.

We would drive little utes up into the mountains to get tomatoes, eggplants and cucumbers off the peasant farmers and then, back at the village, load them onto a semi-trailer heading off to Northern Europe.

After lunch I would wander off with the boys, older men mostly, to play cards (for money), drink ouzo and coffee.

By about dinner time we were all fucked.

Every night I was taken back to someone’s house or farm for dinner. I was the get-out-of-jail card for the boys! ‘Skippy’ was popular with the wives.

Then, on my motor scooter, I would zig zag back to my one room apartment by the sea.

My main legacy from this period is a passing knowledge of the Cretan version of the Greek language and an addiction for Cretan honey and baklava. Nothing else comes close.