A DRIVE THROUGH EUROPE

It is said that travel broadens the mind but it is just as likely to fortify one’s prejudices. Whatever, travel brings many pleasures when you have the leisure to indulge in it. For more than 20 years my wife and I have driven regularly from London via the Brenner Pass to catch the ferries to Greece from Venice or Ancona. We set out below many of the agreeable places to visit (in italics) in this relatively narrow corridor. We only describe places we personally know and there are many omissions - often we meandered off the straight route. It is a jaunt we can highly recommend and you do not have to be herded through, delayed at, or stressed out by crowded airports. Footnotes give details of particularly memorable hotels and restaurants, but these are always subject to change, so do check up on Google before visiting.

The drive from London to the channel ports is rather a slog and we used to take the slow but bracing car ferry to Calais, Ostend or Zeebrugge. Since 1994 we usually preferred the quick, if joyless, Channel Tunnel and you either turn east and go through Belgium or proceed south through Northern France and divert east much later.

Bruges

Belgium is rather underrated and we love the Flemish cities. From Zeebrugge, the first stop is medieval Bruges truly a northern Venice, criss-crossed with canals, great art galleries (for Memling and van Eyck) churches and its fine Burg. What a pleasure it is to eat hotpots of mussels with chips and mayonnaise in the Belgian fashion in the Markt square.(1). Not far away is Ghent, a rival to Bruges in beauty with its unmissable van Eyck altarpiece in St Bavo’s Cathedral, Town Hall and lovely Graslei river harbour.

Adoration of the Lamb, Ghent

 A diversion takes you to historic Antwerp, on the Scheldt, ever associated with Rubens, whose paintings can be seen in several sumptuous churches and in the excellent Royal Museum of Fine Arts (van Dyck too). Antwerp is also a place to shop and sup.(2). Before leaving Belgium, take in the university city of Leuven (Louvain) with its flamboyant late Gothic Town Hall and its beer - Stella Artois is brewed here.

The odd geography of the area allows you to stopover in Dutch Maastricht, with its lively student population, attractive centre and fine bridge over the Meuse. Drive on to Germany past Charlemagne’s Aachen to sparkling Cologne, overlooking the Rhine, inviting a modest boat trip. The huge cathedral dominates but there are also great churches, fine restaurants and shops.(3). An alternative route through the Ardennes makes our first German stop ancient Trier on the Moselle, Roman capital of Gaul with many fine buildings like Constantine’s Basilica, the Porta Nigra and rococo St Paulin, though also, alas, the birthplace of Karl Marx.

Cologne Cathedral

The long drive down the Rhine valley, taking in the grand imperial cathedrals of Speyer and Worms, is scenic although the famous Lorelei rock is rather anticlimactic. This is a frontier area of profound historical significance and takes you down to Strasbourg, attractive capital of Alsace with its towering Gothic cathedral and riverside restaurants, a place happily symbolising Franco-German reconciliation.

If we had taken the route through France at the tunnel exit we might have stopped overnight at unpretentious St Quentin (4) with its Basilica or eaten well in Arras on the exquisite Grand Place (5). Laon should not be missed for its influential Gothic cathedral high on its hill, with stone horned cattle prominent on the roof, the coronation place of early French kings. The motorway takes us through the pleasant Champagne country towards the classic Gothic cathedral of Rheims, with its chevet chapels and flying buttresses.

Grand Place, Arras

Turning east affords the agreeable stop at Metz, capital of Lorraine, but for a real treat divert south to gorgeous Nancy, whose Place Stanislaus is hailed as the finest square in France – son et lumiere shows there in the summer. (6). We rejoin the main route at Strasbourg. Alsace has a famous cuisine and delicious wines and there are many fine hotels and restaurants (7) between Strasbourg and peaceful Colmar.

Place Stanislaus, Nancy

Re-entering Germany we speed south, passing Ulm with its lofty cathedral steeple, and then stopping off at the fabulous rococo riot of Ottobueren. The royal castles of Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau are picturesque but boring within and can safely be missed before proceeding to splendid Garmisch-Partenkirchen (8) overlooked by that unfortunately named peak, the Wank.

Staircase, the Residenz, Wurzburg

Moving east we can instead explore parts of the Romantic Road from Augsburg to Wurzburg. Wurzburg itself is a wonder, where the fabulous rococo Royal Chapel and Bishop’s Palace (Residenz) were designed by Neumann, whose great staircase, exquisitely decorated by Tiepolo, ravishes the eye. Further south our particular favourite is Rothenburg ob den Tauber, the beautifully and completely preserved 17th century town, with a full circuit of city walls (9) fine shops and a medieval Macdonalds. Further south is Dinkelsbuhl, another pretty example of a traditional German town. Not far away are Ettal with its splendid abbey and devout Oberammergau where colourful wall murals abound.

Rothenburg ob den Tauber

For a diversion even further east we can visit lovely Regensburg (once Ratisbon) – twinned with my home town of Aberdeen - which boasts a notable cathedral, many fine churches and a famous sausage-kitchen on the banks of the Danube serving delicious specialities. Not far away is politically incorrect but impressive Walhalla, a large replica classical Greek temple honouring German heroes – Adolf once hoped for a plinth there.

Walhalla

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The great regional magnet is Munich with its beer-gardens, lovely baroque and rococo churches and court theatre, wide boulevards and the Wittelsbachs’ Nymphenburg Palace nearby. Crossing into Austria you make a final exit from the German motorway (Ausfahrt as they indelicately put it).

Salzburg

When an Austrian motorway appears it takes us to dull Innsbruck but we are better advised to detour to historic Salzburg, home of Mozart with fine vistas, cobbled streets, wrought-iron shop signs and sinful cream cakes (10). Soon enough the motorway takes us through the Brenner Pass and the massive obstacle of the Alps starts to recede. (We have not burdened you with the alternative route via Chamonix, the Mont Blanc tunnel and Aosta).

The Dolomites

After the Brenner Pass sun-kissed Italy beckons, but we are still in the Dolomites, one of the loveliest parts of Europe (11), at first proudly German-speaking in Bosen (Bolzano) and Meran (Merano) but soon Italian in the green alpine meadows of Cortina. The road drops steeply and torrential rivers accompany us, past Counter-reformation Trento and finally to Lake Garda (12). The famous city of Verona (13) welcomes us on the banks of the fast-flowing Adige. Excellent hotels, restaurants and chic shops sit cheek by jowl with historic churches, monuments to Dante and the well preserved Roman Arena. Spectacular summer opera performances take place here, though I confess the uncomfortable seats made me think Violetta was taking an unconscionable time a-dying!

The Arena, Verona

The road east from Verona speeds us to the university and art city of Padua, venerated for St Antony at its large Basilica and famous for the early renaissance frescoes by Mantegna at the Scrovegni Chapel (difficult to visit thanks to preservation restrictions). Nearby we find the attractive Riviera del Brenta (Venetian Riviera) centred on Dolo.

Il Redentore, Venice

It is only a short drive to Venice, with which many readers will already be quite familiar. Locking up the car, the vaporetto takes us down the magical Grand Canal to our hotel (14). In our view no superlatives are adequate to describe this lovely city, packed full of great art (the Venetian 3 T’s, Titian, Tintoretto and Tiepolo), glorious churches, piazzas and palazzos galore, sinister alleys (and wall-to-wall tourists awaiting a fleecing!).

Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, Ravenna

Turning south for Ancona, stimulated but poorer after Venice, we divert a little to take in Ravenna, for centuries a Byzantine outpost with highly distinctive buildings (15), like the 5th century Mausoleum of Galla Placidia and the Basilica of San Vitale with its famous mosaics of Justinian and Theodora. The main motorway south takes us to Rimini, but commercialisation and over-development have made it unbearable – better to stop off at tatty but fun San Marino in the nearby hills. The pleasant Adriatic resort of Pesaro (16) holds a Rossini festival, but the real cultural treat is inland Urbino (17) behind its walls, whose lovely Ducal Palace was one of Kenneth Clark’s favourites. Journey’s end is nigh as Ancona is not far away graced by its imperial benefactor Trajan’s Arch. Onward to Greece!

Urbino

This canter through parts of Europe reflects our personal tastes and others will have entirely different preferences. The history of Western Europe is so dense that even otherwise unremarkable places often have at least one treasure. The people share a common standard of civilisation, which is a great asset. We hope we have whetted your appetite for a journey to these parts.

SMD

22.10.11

Text copyright Sidney Donald 2011

Footnotes

1)    Bruges  Hotel Crowne Plaza. Well situated, first class: restaurant Breydel de Coninc, off main square, good seafood.

2)      Antwerp Restaurants La Perouse, smart French on docked boat. Neuze Neuze modern food.

3)      Cologne Hotels: Hyatt, first class by the Rhine. Sofitel, friendly, convenient for Cathedral. Restaurants: Walfisch. Good seafood; Fruh, near Dom, pubby, hearty.

4)      St Quentin Hotel. Les Canonniers, welcoming comfortable stopover near centre.

5)      Arras Restaurant La Faisanderie superior French food in basement on main square.

6)      Nancy, Hotel de la Reine. In Place Stanislaus, high standards.

7)      Alsace Restaurant Le Cerf, Marlenheim. Was Michelin starred. Excellent; Hotel Chateau d’Isenbourg, Rouffach, near Colmar, lovely hotel, 2 pools, good restaurant.

8)      Garmisch, Grand Hotel Sonnenbichl, comfortable, panoramic views, decent restaurant.

9)      Rothenburg ob den Tauber Hotel Eisenhut, an institution in the town centre, lovely rooms, excellent piano bar and restaurant.

10)  Salzburg Hotel Schloss Monstein, expensive, superior, good restaurant.

11)  Tyrol, Romantik Hotel Turm, Vols am Schlern/Fie allo Sciliar, in Bolzano area, lovely alpine situation, good food.

12)  Garda, Locanda Albergo San Vigilio, venerable, small, smart hotel on Lake Garda. Antique filled rooms, good restaurant.

13)  Verona Hotel Due Torri, best in town, pricey: Victoria perfectly acceptable. Restaurant Re Teodorico, panoramic, chic. Torcolo, excellent Italian dishes at reasonable prices behind the expensive Arena strip.

14)  Venice Hotels Metropole, near Doge’s Palace, reliably good. Attractive Cavalletto, on side canal near St Mark’s Danieli Hotel Restaurant, panoramic, pricey, inconsistent.

15)  Ravenna Hotel Bizanio, pleasant. Restaurant Tre Spade, lively.

16)  Pesaro Restaurant da Alceo, good seafood.

17) Urbino Restaurant Vecchia Urbino, honest Italian cooking.

THE ENIGMATIC MOUSTACHE

I am in two minds about moustaches. The matter does not trouble me unduly nor keep me awake at night and it is truly not a matter of world-shattering importance. I merely cannot decide whether to approve the clean-shaven look or to prefer the hairy upper lip.  Of course the expression “clean-shaven” is itself a value-judgement and so the argument may already be unfairly biased against the ‘tache. Let me be as impartial as possible.

One of the problems is the occasional rabid exhibitionism of the moustached.  I see on the telly those World Moustache Competitions wherein some Indian appears with a hideous 5-foot growth of which he is inordinately proud. And who can forget Tory MP and bounder Sir Gerald Nabarro, handle-barred, booming and bumptious? He gave handle-bar moustaches a bad name, yet I know a gifted golfer and general good egg with just such a fine ‘tache and I always enjoyed comedian “Professor” Jimmy Edwards, similarly adorned.

It would be wrong of us to treat moustaches as comic in any way.  Of the 20 male prime ministers of Britain since 1901, as serious a bunch as you would wish, 9 were moustachioed and 11 clean-shaven. Balfour and Bonar Law had luxuriant growth of the walrus variety, Campbell-Bannerman, Lloyd George, Macdonald and Chamberlain were conventionally hairy, Attlee’s was rather a feeble, austere effort and MacMillan’s wore a decidedly moth-eaten aspect. Much the best was Anthony Eden’s, well groomed and dapper, indeed when I first saw Eden in 1956 I thought him the most handsome and distinguished man I had ever clapped eyes upon – pity about his sadly disastrous Suez premiership.

ANTHONY EDEN

ARTHUR BALFOUR

                                                                                                   

In the modern era British premiers have tended to be clean-shaven, but John Major had a tantalisingly empty upper lip, which to my mind cried out to be occupied by a hirsute rug, but it was not to be – probably Central Office advised against. The great orator, Enoch Powell had a thin moustache through which he was able to sneer and declaim in his learned, logical, memorable, and sometimes unhinged, way. Oddly, almost all Britain’s wartime commanders sported those trim Army moustaches, Alanbrooke, Alexander, Montgomery, Wavell, Maitland Wilson and Auchinleck. Did this give them an unfair advantage?

I will ignore Latino moustaches as an ineradicable part of the local scene, but certainly outside the UK moustaches hold a place, sometimes of honour, sometimes of shame. In the shame corner one would nominate Adolf Hitler of the notorious toothbrush, Saddam Hussein, Muammar Gaddafi and Joseph Stalin while in the honour corner one recognises Charles de Gaulle, Chaim Weizmann and Albert Einstein. Somewhere in between stands baffled, earnest Greek premier George Papandreou and hero/villain General Franco. The Russians have a sinister line in the murderous moustachioed, though horrible Beria and dubious Khrushchev and Brezhnev were clean-shaven. In the United States the luscious mo’s of Teddy Roosevelt and Howard Taft must have sated the electorate - since Woodrow Wilson all US Presidents have been clean-shaven.

Touching upon the US takes us to Hollywood. I ignore the here-today-gone tomorrow moustachioed (“mustache “in the local lingo) like George Clooney and Brad Pitt, who will be clean-shaven in a few months. I want to honour the pencil-moustached heart throbs like Clark Gable and Errol Flynn, supplemented by pros like William Powell and David Niven and more recent stars like Tom Selleck. Gable and Flynn set the hearts of a whole generation a-flutter and I ascribe this mainly to the aphrodisiac influence of those manly moustaches.

CLARK GABLE

ERROL FLYNN

                                                              

The truth is that to wear or not to wear a moustache is essentially a matter of transient fashion. It may take 2 weeks to grow a recognisable moustache, time enough to enter the in-crowd. My own experience is that wives do not much care for prickly ‘taches especially in passionate clinches. There is also a prejudice against a moustache which harbours hay-fever mucus in its upper storeys and yesterdays’ soup in its lower ones. There are elaborate china cups which provide a resting place for the moustache when tea or soup is to be drunk, but I confess to being a messy eater and these articles were of limited assistance to me.

My grandfatherly advice to any young man is to grow a moustache and see how it suits you and do not hesitate to take the razor to it at the first sign of trouble. Above all, never compliment your lady-friend on her moustache; the loss of her sense of humour will be instantaneous…..

SMD

4.10,11

Text copyright Sidney Donald 2011

KEEPING FIT

One of the most astonishing phenomena in recent years is the profusion of health clubs in every high street and the dedicated enthusiasm of the younger generation for what they have to offer. I must confess from the start that these establishments leave me cold; ever since my schooldays I have detested gymnasia (I could never climb up a rope or vault a horse), I believe treadmills should have been left to Victorian convicts and I echo Oscar Wilde’s dictum “To get back my youth I would do anything in the world except take exercise, get up early or be respectable.”

My negative attitude leaves me, I know, in a small minority. One of my sons lifts weights every morning, his wife is a Pilates fanatic, another son goes roller-blading, an old friend has completed at least 15 marathons and many people I know have run the full gamut from what my father called physical jerks to Swedish drill, PT, yoga, jogging, Wii board exercises and aerobics. They always tell me they feel much better for it and it is not for me to query these assertions.  Between ourselves, and don’t say a word, I think they are all quite mad.

The madness derives from a disproportionate obsession with health and body weight. We would all probably subscribe to Juvenal’s ideal “Mens sana in corpore sano” and recent research supports a connection between the presence of parasites and infections in the mother and the child’s brain development. Average IQ in disease-ridden Equatorial Guinea is about half that in hygienic Japan, so good health certainly brings huge gains; but you do not need to tie yourself into yoga knots to achieve a sensible level of good mental health.

Physical good health is a more elusive concept. Commercial advertising and Hollywood values extol the body beautiful, the flat stomach, the unlined face and the bulging biceps. This body is a mirage, impossible to achieve for the great majority or only achievable at an absurd physical and financial cost. I am convinced that there would be enormous psychic benefits if most denizens of health clubs, plastic surgery parlours and jogging tracks ceased chasing some chimerical body profile and lived normal lives, sharpening their wits with a daily crossword, taking the odd walk and playing sport only for pleasure.

Which brings me on to the vexed question of weight. I am 69, 5ft 10in and weigh a wobbly 17stone. According to some computer programme my BMI (whatever that is) is 34.1 and should be no more than 25. The computer tells me that I must shed 4 ½ stone, an amazing command as I have not weighed 12 ½ stone since I wore short trousers. I reluctantly concede that in an unlikely ideal world I should lose a stone, but to lose 4 ½ stone would probably hasten my demise by a goodly number of years. Actually I intend to live to 100, mainly to spite the NatWest Pension Fund, but also to show that being a fatty pays off.

My food intake is what I judge to be sensible for a man of my age. I am not quite the enthusiastic trencherman of old, attacking steak and kidney pudding with sprouts and floury potatoes with barely controlled gusto and going back for seconds, but I still adore fried fish and a few chips, roast beef, lamb, liver and bacon – just the sort of things dieticians tut-tut about. Yes, I eat salads, boiled vegetables and fresh fruit too (good boy) and ice cream, pastries and trifle when I can (naughty). But Nature helps too; just as one’s height diminishes as you grow older so too your stomach shrinks, and thus there is a useful kind of genetic adjustment.

I am broadly happy with my weight and eating habits and have no intention of going for a jog. I shall never forget stricken Jimmy Carter collapsing after too strenuous a jog, gasping like a gaffed salmon and giving vice-president Walter Mondale an all-too-brief adrenalin rush of hope: or sadly the case of driven Leonard Rossiter, who gave us such manic fun as Rigsby and Reggie Perrin, dying at the theatre after a surfeit of squash-playing.

It is when the subject of drink comes up that fitness fanaticism truly bares its fangs. On an averagely dull day I will drink half a bottle of wine (6 units) and a can of beer (2 units). These 8 units are classed by the UK medical profession as “binge drinking!” What planet does this profession inhabit?  I would judge 3 times that consumption slightly excessive but by no means a bender, the kind of drinking many people indulge in every weekend. There are saner voices. I recall mildly remarking to the nurse when being assessed by a new doctor in the Cotswolds that “maybe I drink too much”. Her cheerful reply was that “most people do around here” and she splendidly recommended several local pubs! It is true that alcohol merits careful handling and is best used as a lubrication rather than a motive fuel. As an austere, reserved Scotsman, I know my ice melts after a drink or three and I do not need to see some specialist’s horror photographs of pickled livers to know that there are limits.

Like many of my vintage, the esteemed medical profession makes heroic efforts to keep us alive. I swallow a daily dose of 5 pills to avoid strokes, heart attacks, clogged arteries, high blood pressure and gout and have been doing so for about 15 years. I am bright-eyed and bushy-tailed today but I am not sure this is because of, or despite, this cocktail of pills. The truth is that doctors are only at the foothills of understanding how the body works and the pharma industry is very young. They do their best, but you only need to glance at the many health scare pages of the Daily Mail, to see how uncertain our remedies are and how divided the specialists.

Patient readers may well recommend that I go on a diet. Please do not bother.  No subject is more a hornets’ nest of quackery than diets from Atkins diets to cabbage diets to banana diets. Rather like Climate Change and the Millennium Bug, diets are a hotbed of false science, profiteering and posturing “experts”. I hear the bees buzzing in my bonnet, so I will stop. Just as the Polar icecaps will not melt, we will not eat ourselves into an early grave or much improve our lives by doing 50 press-ups and over-stretching our pelvic muscles. Fatties of the World, unite!

SMD

16.10.11

Copyright Sidney Donald 2011

THE VIRTUES OF THE GREEKS

No country has had a worse Press than Greece in recent months. Biting scorn, international contempt and acid sarcasm has been the lot of the Greeks and it has hurt them. As I spend much time in Athens, I share the widely-held dim view of the Greek government. Suffice it to say, a political elite, corrupt and greedy beyond words, has guided the Greek economy beyond redemption and maybe beyond rescue. It is not surprising that the Greeks are reluctant to pay any taxes to such a government, but that is a longer story. I want to counter the prevailing ill-feeling and extol the positive aspects of the generally likeable Greeks.

Greeks are not much like other Europeans. Living in a chronically failed state has long forced them to be self-reliant. They do not parade their hardships, real as they are. They know that nobody else will help them, as they live in a feeble parody of a modern welfare state. The Greek grows a protective shell around him. This is in part the source of his self-absorption, his total egotism, his firm belief that he “can do what he likes in his own country”.

This belief manifests itself in a variety of ways. Oblivious of planning laws, he will build his house wherever he can and in whatever way he wishes. As traffic regulations only apply to others, he will drive the wrong way down one-way streets, park on a neighbour’s front door step and, defiant of others, jump a queue without any compunction. In short the Greek is almost ungovernable, as invading Ottomans and Nazi Germans discovered. To some, this is what the French call incivisme, lack of community feeling, and we British call “bloody-mindedness” but I prefer to characterise it as admirable independence and the absence of a slave-mentality.

This self absorption is best illustrated in the rembetico solo male dance. A Greek, full of confidence, dances alone in front of some admiring, usually lady, onlookers, concentrating on the insistent rhythm of the plangent mandolins and executing the complex steps with robust energy, oblivious to his surroundings. He enjoys the applause but his real pleasure derives from the assertion of his masculinity. There is nobility, long lost in the West, in this display of male dominance.

The Greek most cherishes his family circle. His mother is placed on a pedestal of purity and high worth, his arrival deemed to be a Virgin Birth after an Immaculate Conception. Father is respected and must pay the bills, but only has a walk-on part. Granny (Yaya) is looked upon as a fount of ancient wisdom and interfering aunts complete the profoundly matriarchal system. In return Greek male children are spoiled and pampered, commonly living with their parents well into their 30s.  Moving out into a world of which they are not the centre must be a nasty culture shock, which they are reluctant to accept, hence their chronic over-assertiveness. It is their Mums’ fault!

After his family, the Greek values his home town, village or island. Usually a second generation resident in Athens or Thessaloniki, he has a primeval urge to return to his birthplace like a migratory salmon, on many a public or private holiday. But just as in ancient times Spartan distrusted Athenian, Lakonian distrusted Arcadian, so the modern Greek peasant distrusts the town-dweller and any outsider. Although he will be hospitable in the obligatory traditional way the Macdonalds of Glencoe were hospitable to the Campbells, at heart the Greek is a confirmed xenophobe. Outsiders historically brought trouble. Why should he trust an Italian or a Briton, let alone a German or an American? I will not even mention the Turks…… Problems in his relations with Europe are explicable in this context.

Despite relative poverty, the Greek enjoys an enviable, if simple, life-style.  Work is an inconvenience and often resented, as testified by the legendarily rude civil servants and shop assistants. But in his element, at leisure, the Greek can be delightful. He bursts into song easily as he drives to the warm seaside for a swim. This is followed by a lazy taverna meal of fried squid and salad, washed down by ouzo or cold beer, as the Med laps gently by your table.  Even in the modest island café, the Greek laughs and jokes in his vest, exchanging loud banter with his friends, eating a plate of beans and drinking cold draught wine and maybe playing tavli (backgammon). Okay, the French will deprecate the culinary standards, the English the lack of table linen and the German the casual service, but if a Greek prefers stewed goat to something dreamt up by Escoffier, who is to say his simple tastes are wrong?

Above all the Greek loves to talk. Oscar Wilde said the Irish were the greatest talkers since the Greeks. The modern Greek keeps up this tradition and if the conversation is not up to that of the ancient Symposia and Dialogues, he expounds his views on a huge variety of subjects at some length and with much passion, with his friends fully participating. Who does not cherish this lifestyle?

It is true that the Greek is undisciplined and does not do rules and regulations. There are for example only a handful of golf clubs in Greece. I sometimes have a nightmare that I am secretary of a Greek golf club and have to stop members driving from the wrong tee, racing tractors down the fairways or stamping on their opponents ball. The line between the free spirit and the anarchic one is thin.

It is not strange that the Greek finds the rules of the Eurozone alien and he is in baffled denial. Sadly his representatives now have to bone up on the rules, rather late in the game, as the Greek is in the humiliating position of not standing his round and having to cadge from richer members. It could be said that the Greek is “unclubbable” but Sarkozy struck the right note a few days ago when he drew an analogy with a family. When a family member gets into trouble, he said, the rest of the family rallies round.

The Greek has the same humanity as we do. Yesterday the 19-year old daughter of a friend sat beside my wife and me in a café in the square and squeezed herself with pleasure as she told us she had passed her piano exams with flying colours. Last night a young neighbour, short of work, replaced 10-year old flower beds in front of our house and provided new earth and new plant cuttings. He would not take payment but, as a keen gardener, wants to tend the flowers himself.

Such are the Greeks. They are basically good people.  Maybe they are the black sheep of the family, but family members they should remain and be helped through their present difficulties, if at all possible, and the smile brought back to their faces.

SMD

2.10.11                                          Copyright Sidney Donald 2011