Footprints in the Sand

I turned over and tried to get back to sleep on the rock-hard mattress. My pillow felt as if it was made of concrete. My right ear was flattened and sore. I doubted whether it would ever regain its normal shape.

I was just dropping off when it happened again. Another deafening landslip of gravel cancelled out any further attempt at sleep, so I climbed out of bed and stomped over to the bathroom. You could hardly call it a bathroom, it was about the size of an airplane lavatory. I paused in the doorway… Hang on. Where was the shower?

‘Mu-um?’

‘What?’ She was rubbing sunscreen into her legs.

‘I thought the Old Rogue said we had a shower.’

‘We have. The tap’s under the towel thingy.’

I went back into the bathroom. On closer inspection, I discovered that the ‘shower’ was just a rusty sort of sprinkler sticking out of the ceiling. When I turned the tap on, water gushed out all over the loo, all over the basin and then drained away through an evil-looking hole in the floor. And what’s more – the water was stone cold.

‘Yuuukkk!’ I said as I climbed out of the icy flood and found a dry bit of floor to towel myself down on. ‘That was just about the most gruesome experience I’ve had in my entire life.’

‘You’ll soon get used to it,’ said Mum. ‘You find showers like that all over the islands. Labour-saving – it washes down the bathroom too.’

‘I think it’s disgusting.’

‘Oh Lucy, don’t be such a killjoy. It’s lovely outside. He’s laid breakfast on the terrace. What do you want? Tea or coffee?’

‘Tea, I suppose. And orange juice.’ I’d had a Greek coffee at the airport. The cup was half-full of muddy-tasting dregs.

‘See you out there, then.’

When I emerged into the sunlight, Mum was already seated at a table in the shade making the best of the ‘breakfast’. We each had a plate with couple of slices of dry white bread, a sliver of margarine and some red jam. When Mum asked for orange juice, we were each presented with a Fanta.

‘Well I suppose we can’t expect much at the price we’re paying,’ said Mum when the Old Rogue was out of earshot.

‘Now you can see why we’re the only ones staying here,’ I remarked grimly.

Anyway, after the guy had made it clear that breakfast was over by swabbing down the table all around us, we decided to spend the morning exploring. Armed with swimming things and suntan lotion, a book for Mum and my Walkman, we set off in search of a decent beach.

The nearest beach was in the long bay lying to the right of the headland. But the sand was an unwelcoming black colour and you could see by looking down from the terrace that there was a wide band of weed along the shore which you’d have to swim through to get to open water.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ I said to Mum.

‘But it’s nice and close.’

‘Nice! Imagine what could be lurking in that weed. Crabs or jellyfish or sea urchins.’

At the mention of sea urchins, Mum agreed. I’d trodden on one once and had all these little prickles stuck in my foot which had to be taken out one by one with Mum’s tweezers. It was agony.

‘What about the harbour?’ I suggested.

‘Let’s go down and see.’

So we tried the bay on the left. A flight of rough irregular steps wove its way down through some poor little tumble-down houses. At the bottom there was a pathetic fringe of shingle edged by some rotting fishermen’s shacks. Nets were stretched out on the tarry stones to dry. The air smelt of weed and gently decaying fish.

‘Oh, isn’t this wonderful!’ said Mum brightly. ‘Look Lucy, real fishermen!’

I looked. Some rather depressed-looking whiskery Greeks were sitting barefoot on the beach mending nets.

‘Look at their boats! Oh, it’s all so unspoilt.’

I thought the place could do with a bit of spoiling actually, but I didn’t comment. I suppose the boats were pretty. They were a fading weathered sea-blue, like those trendy kitchen cabinets you get in Ikea – but this weathering was obviously genuine. One of the fishermen was rowing his boat out to sea. He stood up in it and rowed in the direction he was going, leaning forward on the oars in a really weird way.

‘We can’t swim here, it’s all fishy and tarry,’ I pointed out. My new sandals were rubbing a blister on my foot and it was already really hot. I was longing for a swim.

‘There’s probably a beach in the next bay,’ said Mum. ‘We just need to clamber over those rocks.’

The rocks were dark and evil-looking and I didn’t hold out much hope of there being a nice white sand beach the other side. But I clambered after Mum anyway. It took about half an hour to get round to the next bay. And once we got there, predictably enough, we found there was yet another headland to negotiate. I was lagging behind and my blister was rubbed red and raw.

When, at last, we rounded the further point, I could see that there were only more jagged rocks. To top it all, this bay wasn’t as sheltered as the fishing harbour – the sea looked dark and angry as it lashed against the rocks. It didn’t even look safe to swim in.

I was getting really fed up. The Greek sea Dad had described to me was calm, blue, crystal clear – so clear, he said, you could see fish swimming beneath you, twenty metres down.

Mum was up ahead of me, trying to see round into the bay beyond. I tried shouting to catch her attention but my voice was lost in the sound of the sea.

I sat down crossly on a rock and took my sandal off to examine the damage. The blister was throbbing. I dabbled my foot in the water to cool it.

‘Lucy! Come on!’

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ I shouted back.

‘What?’

She turned and started picking her way back over the rocks. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’m hot and I’m thirsty and I’ve got a humungous blister,’ I shouted.

Mum joined me on my rock. ‘It doesn’t look very inviting, does it?’

‘No.’

‘But having come so far…’

‘Look. Anyone in their right mind can see there’s no way there’s going to be a decent beach anywhere round here.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. Maybe we should go back.’

‘At last!’

I climbed to my feet and tried to ease my foot back into my sandal, but it was too painful.

‘Oh Mu-um! I don’t believe this!’

‘What is it?’