Winter Reflections on a Corfiot Terrace

                The sky is a gloomy battlefield. The rains, which bathed Corfu this morning, have moved on, south and west of the island. As I sit on my veranda, angel rays pierce the fractured clouds, lancing through the distant sheets of rain. The terraced olive groves march up the mountain side, leaves green and silver in this winter light. Darker stands of cypress stand in contrast, tight conical crowns yearning skyward.

                On the beach, local families fly kites. It is the day of kites, the start of Lent, and a national holiday in Greece. The town of Agios Gordios is quiet beyond that, despite the mass of garish neon stucco that is the Pink Palace.

                We learn from our host at the Panorama, Spyros, that times have grown lean these past few years for the Palace. Igoumenitsa has a new deep water port, and the Italian ferries from Bari and Brindisi no longer call at Corfu Town. That steady flow of backpackers that once served as life’s blood for the town now passes the island by. A hostel of near mythical proportions now struggles for survival. Agios Gordios fades from the collective minds of the budget travelling crowd, it would seem.

                The jagged spires of sedimentary rock thrusting upwards, the groves of olives and cypress crowding the shoulders of the mountains, makes for a dramatic backdrop to my thoughts. There was an explosion yesterday in the Plaka, that ancient part of Athens where we had been staying and touring. A government building targeted, as desperate citizens vent their anger at what is widely perceived as a government betrayal. Unemployment is high, around 18%. Taxation is higher. The ranks of homeless, urban poor swell. Poverty becomes a desperation to feed and clothe oneself, one’s family; this soon turns to anger, which cycles its way to violence. A chance for those without power or hope to show that they can still possess teeth, and the will to bite. I think of the crowds of innocents roaming the Plaka, and hope that no people were hurt. I also think of those happy, well fed strays, all wagging tails and eagerness for affection. Somehow, the thought of one of them injured is even worse.

                Three kites rise high, very high, above the beach, stirring in the breeze, dancing on wisps of salty air. They are so high now, that one errant tug of the line will doom the kite to a watery grave. The Ionian Sea sparkles with light, shafting down again through the mustered phalanx of grey. The rain is far gone beyond sight, lost in the great green of the larger Mediterranean.