It is galling to leave a place where you can buy a litre of 'reddish' wine in a cardboard carton for €2.20. Mind you, there are more regrets than that. There is a hint of autumn in late August, the air is moist and some leaves are turning, although it is still hot despite the strong Meltemi winds. Summer certainly isn't over and will be lingering here long after any hope that it might actually arrive in England is past. I feel strangely cheated that I will not be able to see the merging of the seasons or harvest the ripening fruit from our trees. Today has been spent moving and stacking firewood, a bleak reminder that I will not see the place again until mid-winter. Tomorrow the patio furniture will be moved to the shed, dust covers and tarpaulins will be brought out and on Wednesday we fly back.
Sometimes I feel so bloody bourgeois. After all, the holiday home abroad is soooo the must-have accessory for the affluent. The problem is that this increasingly feels more like simply a home whilst the house in England is a work home. Livings have to be earned and so we have to retreat to reality, though employment is looking increasingly precarious. I am flying back to an uncertain future. It is such a privilege to be here, to have this house, to enjoy the friendships, as well as escape the English climate. It is so sad to leave, yet my affection for the North of England is still strong. Ah, torn between Greece and the North. At least there is one real blessing; I don't live in London.