We all have a flash point — public transport, the NHS, George Bush.
Surprisingly, mine’s Greece. Just mention the country where I’ve had
holidays almost every year since the late Seventies and I switch in an
instant to a ranting, grumpy old woman.
It inflames me to screaming pitch that the simple charms of a country I love
are being swept away by homogenised resort hotels with spas, infinity pools
and international menus. Santorini, the famed volcanic island in the
Cyclades chain, is a prime example. It is still beautiful geographically,
but groans under overpriced designer hotels and jewellery shops frequented
by Ivana Trump lookalikes with perma-tans and gold shoes eating risotto with
truffle shavings in smart restaurants.
Call me romantic, but I want my old Greece back, with its thyme-scented paths,
goats in the road, white-domed monasteries and pristine pebble beaches
lapped by God’s own swimming pool. I want to dip rough country bread into
grassy olive oil and eat calamari hot from the pan. I want to go all the way
from an ouzo aperitif to a Metaxa digestif without listening to anything
except the lap of the waves.
Naturally, old Greece is still there in its ancient sites, but I don’t want
the push and thrust of coach parties, or school outings. I want a tranquil
Greek escape just for me. So, does my romantic ideal still exist? Filoxenia,
a small specialist operator billing itself as “authentic Greece”, rose to my
challenge of no hotels, no swimming pools, and preferably no Brits. My
demands were for simple self-catering with a short stroll to the beach and
tavernas with genuine Greek grub.
I was offered Villa Romanza (good name at least) in the seaside village of
Poulithra in the Eastern Peloponnese. Luckily my husband David shares my
passion for pared-down Greece, and we accepted after studying the map to
discover that the coast road ends at Poulithra. It must be quiet, we
thought.
Romanza turned out to be apartments, not a villa, owned by Costas Kekes, who
also runs a bar in the village. On arrival we had to ask around until we
found him with the key.
After an indecently early flight to Kalamata on the west coast we faced a
four-hour drive through mountain passes and dramatic limestone scenery. We
arrived in the early evening to a Poulithra that looked comfortingly sleepy.
Not having enough Greek to form a sentence, we wound the window down and
hollered “Costas Kekes” at the first person we saw. He looked at us in blank
astonishment and hared off down the road.
After three more tries we found our man, a silver-haired charmer with manners
as polished as his English. To be honest Villa Romanza wasn’t that romantic,
but it did fulfil my basic criteria. It was clean, with a good-sized fridge
and a balcony big enough for alfresco eating, even if the “sea view” was
partly spoilt by ugly cables.
Still, with a balmy evening, the sound of the cicadas, a bottle of chilled
white and a dish of pistachios, such details are soon forgotten. We timed it
at only five minutes to a deserted pebble beach, where we strolled in
amethyst twilight to a taverna with no name. With no menu, we opted for the
typical Greek holiday meal of salad with a slab of feta, souvlaki (pork
skewer) and chips. The only wine on offer was the “village vintage” rosé in
a terracotta jug — more than acceptable at £1.40 for half a litre.
Every morning I walked through a dusty olive grove past a tethered donkey to
fetch the hard crusty bread, delicious softened with oil, but hopeless with
butter. I met only a few Greek families with holiday homes stocking up on
provisions, and Costas Kekes, who always slapped me on the back and asked if
I needed anything. After 24 hours I was so chilled that I’d forgotten all
the things I was doing without, so always said “no”.
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