The Quest For Corduroy And The Worlds End

'London is a hot asphalt assault on sanity, the outrageous and the erotic, a whore house for the senses and it's begging for an evil little hobbit like me to fuck with it !'

The shower etches a hot watery tattoo across my back as I stand there, eyes shut pondering what the day will bring and if I have the energy to see it through. Rallying myself I get ready, choosing appropriate clothing for the heat of the city and a suitable backpack. Why am I doing this? I think to myself only two days ago I was in the local hospital casualty thinking it was game over and now I'm preparing to head off to London for the day. The sensible part of me is suddenly abandoned as the fatalist part takes over.

One last check of the trains online and I notice someone I knew has passed away whilst I browse on Facebook, not a friend but he was obviously a friend of people I know. He's my age, at school we were the same height though had different health problems. He had injections to boost things whilst all the doctors wanted to do for me was break my legs and put contraptions in to stop the bones knitting back together, thus encouraging them to grow. The truth is I never really got too friendly with this guy, in later years we didn't get along but the revelation of his passing reminds me of my mortality, sure I didn't really like him but I didn't hate him either as I recall he turned into something of a mini football hooligan mascot for some local gang where I once lived. His past demeanors aside I take no comfort at his passing.

Crossing the bridge at the train station later  I see a crow perched close by staring at me. 'Craw-craw!' it cries as it seems to look intently at me, as I stare back the only thing I can think of is at least let me get these shoes I want to buy today and possibly a half decent corduroy jacket.

The journey passes without event and soon I'm in the capital, an old friend I saw leaving the station returning from London had told me it was warm down there, on leaving my cloudy home town I wasn't convinced but it turned out it was rather warm after all. Descending into the underground I check my oyster cards credit, it shows £12 which is more than I thought I had, plenty to cover the days travel. Soon I'm on Oxford Street which is busier than I've seen on previous visits, people of all nationalities, shapes and sizes bumping into one another as they're transfixed by the retail treasures on offer. I decide to drift into one shop but don't last long, too many people and nothing remotely my style. As I Weave my way down the road sirens hit in suddenly, out of nowhere comes a whole cavalcade of police vans, probably fifteen or so all wailing loudly, I'm not entirely sure what's happening but I do notice the traffic is at a standstill and there's a feeling of rising contention in the air. Out of the busy crowds and traffic I make for the relative solitude of Berwick Street and Sister Ray records. To my horror the shop is empty and as I stand looking shocked at my reflection in the window I catch glimpse of a sign saying they've moved .... to the shop directly behind me! It's a smaller affair but still has plenty of stock, cd's upstairs, vinyl downstairs. Nothing much catches my eye except for a German girl that looks like a miniature Boadicea, long curly red hair cascading over her shoulders, small curvy with very agreeable features. Dragging myself and my lust out of the shop I head for Reckless Records further down the street but nothing takes my fancy there so I saunter to the first planned stop which is Underground shoes and the smell of leather and suede bliss.

It's hard for me not to get excited in this place, I love the shoes it specialises in, creepers, triple sole trackers and winkle pickers. As I try various pairs on a twinge of pain hits my chest, a reminder of Monday and most probably of recent excesses, I decide there and then to go with the winkle pickers, at least if I'm going to croak in the capital then I may as well have me some fancy boots. I talk to the the shop assistant who is from Nottingham, I've  met him before on a previous visit, he turns and asks;

'Would you live in London?'

'No' is my flat reply but I'm thinking I might die in it today wearing the boots you've just sold me.

'Well I guess Nottingham is my second favourite city' he adds.

Thanking him I bag my new footwear and head off into Soho, the sun shines down and people queue at sandwich and deli wagons to procure lunch. I like the bottom end of Berwick Street and that area of Soho in general, sporadic market stalls line the street as a small tower block looms over head providing respite from the sun, it feels like a town within a city, bohemian and seedy in equal abundance. Turning into Brewer Street I head for a favourite of mine 'Vinmag' which is basically a shop full of retro television, film and nostalgia goodness. I tarry for a while here and purchase a Thatcher key fob for a friend that got me the train tickets cheap, even though it grieves me to handle anything remotely Thatcherite but hey he's a fan so why not give a little thank you gift back. Next I walk down Great Windmill Street, a narrow little street that has a small school tucked away behind high railings, it always makes me smile when I hear the kids in the playground, it just seems surreal, right in the middle of a huge city. Crossing Shaftesbury Avenue I double back slightly to the lower half of Wardour Street but steer myself in the direction of Leicester Square through China town side stepping lots of Oriental tourists and getting a creepy smile off a suited businessman loitering in a doorway. As I hit the square choppers swoop in suddenly, sirens sound and after the Oxford Street sirens earlier I really feel something big is going down, hopefully the next revolution. As much as I want an insurrection, I want a corduroy jacket more and the only place I may procure one is Camden. Eyeing the choppers with caution I make for the Leicester Square tube station, I'd usually pop into the Trocadero but it seems to be a shadow of its former self these days and my arthritis is beginning to grind. 

Police choppers over head

I find Camden like I always find it, busy, eclectic and with its usual vibe. Goths, punks, tourists and downright weird people all rubbing shoulders on the busy high street. Feeling the heat and with a raging thirst I peruse the first market on the right briefly before falling into the Elephants Head, a traditional no frills bar and a favourite of mine. As much as I'd like a beer the recent health issue warns me off, I decide on a mineral water but my day quickly improves with the arrival of two very curvy American ladies in 1950s attire, have I died and gone to heaven already I muse? The sparkling water is effervescent pick me up, I gather my senses, type out a few texts and plan my next move though my stomach now tells me food would be a good idea, I know just the place. Over the road in the Stables market I sit down to a £4 carton of Chinese food, a mixture of chicken, rice, mini rolls and a few other things she's thrown in. For some reason I always choose this place, its near the entrance to the market so is great for people watching but it has a small side area with seating flanking  the counter. It almost feels Bladerunner-esque as I dine and the Chinese woman offers tasty free morsels to the passing crowds. Fed and watered its time for the real business of shopping but I take it steady, there's no urgency in my retail therapy and this yields rewards as I discover new shops and stalls. Alas it doesn't look good for a corduroy jacket, the first two shops reveal very little apart from a really yucky brown one that's far too large. I search more and just when I'm leaving the area of the retro shops I spy one more. Enquiring at the counter a small Scottish woman directs me towards a rail and there it is, a very lustrous dark navy corduroy jacket, will it fit? I ponder as I gingerly take it off the hanger. Success it does but may need some slight alterations on the length. I haggle hard for a good price and an Indian guy who is evidently the boss gets in on the act. In the end I get my way and walk off a happy hobbit, I also get a great t-shirt from the neighbouring retro shop too. Feeling quite hot I step outside and stroll to the very end of the market area, finding a new bar as I do. Pausing to re-arrange my bag I return to the main market area and hesitate at Cyberdog, shall I go in or not? The day has been expensive already so with a surprising demonstration of willpower I turn my back on it and meander through the alley ways to find yet another cool shop called Sai-Sai in which I end up buying a shirt and feeling really guilty at the money I'm spending. Slowly I walk back to the main street and over to yet another market area and sit by the canal to kill some time and try and make some space in my bag again. A black guy walks past, nods and smiles then sits just down from me briefly before returning and asking if I'm ok again. Then another guy who looks like a rough sleeper decides to sit next to me, I'm pretty sure what's coming next so decide to leave, only to be greeted by the black guy again who smiles broadly and asks 'Do you need some marijuana?'. Whilst I feel some could be of use to quell my screaming bone joints I politely decline and give him a friendly smile back before heading back to the main high street where I end up buying yet another t-shirt and bantering with the stall owner.

 Those curvy foxy American girls !

 Bar at the end of the market

 Elvis has left the building !

 Temptation

 Surreal !

It's coming up to rush hour and I decide to take my chances and brave things, I'm leaving a little earlier than planned but I'm tiring fast. My friend has given me a pass for the first class lounge at Kings Cross and I plan to use it. Reaching Kings Cross in relatively little time I ask for directions to said lounge which is a lift ride away. A guy checks my credentials before admitting me. The first thing I do is grab a cool drink of fresh orange juice and then pour a latte straight after before reclining in a comfy chair in front of a large flat screen tv. The place feels like an Ikea showroom, a bit bland really but comfortable and quieter than the main concourses obviously apart from a rather pensive businessman walking up and down chittering into his mobile phone. Watching the news I now see the cause of the previous drama on the streets of London. It turns out the cab drivers of the city had a mass protest at a new phone/tablet app in which people can book taxi cabs more cheaply. So the police despatched all those vans and choppers because of protesting cabbies?! Ok so streets were blocked but I can't help feeling the show of force seemed quite excessive in some respects. As much as I want to empathise with the cabbies having caught a couple of cabs in the past I can say with some clarity that they are really expensive.

Unwinding in the chair I reflect on the day, how its gone so quick and how happy I've felt in my own company. So I have my corduroy jacket and winkle picker shoes - if I want I can go and change into some seventies corduroy assassin revolutionary and lead the cabbies to Westminster and overthrow the government but I'm tired and quite content so it won't be today. Despite the dark start to the week and the bad omens my day in London has given me a refreshed sense of self belief. Whilst life exists the possibilities are endless, the revolution and London can wait until next time.

In The Shadow of Mount Athos

The gentlest of breezes creeps in from the Aegean sea as I sit beside old Petros, the resident handyman at the hotel bar outside by the pool. His fingers glide through his milky white forked beard as he tells me of his many adventures and the fact he can speak five languages. I listen intently though I'm beginning to feel intoxicated through Metaxa brandy, with his broken though very passable English Petros intrigues me deeply, his eyes glimmer with wit and intelligence, his long silver hair hangs around in shoulders in curls, it's almost as though I'm sat next to Zeus himself. The reality is I'm sat in The Sporades Islands in Greece, on the island of Skiathos next to a Macedonian man whose life has been far more interesting than my own......

Arriving in Skiathos, I wasn't sure what to really expect, the airport is nothing more than a large hangar and after traversing customs rapidly we had to wait on a very old German bus with no air con. The wait was caused by a Mr Foster who evidently saw it better to jump in a taxi and head straight off to his accommodation without telling anyone, nice man eh?

The next eye opener after Mr Fosters tourist treachery had been revealed some forty-five minutes later was my hotels proximity to the airport, literally two minutes down the road and we were the first drop off, we could have walked it, thankfully flights to the island aren't regular. The lobby area of the hotel was dimly lit affair, manned by a thin dour looking Greek guy adorned in a seventies style faux leather looking jacket and bouffant quiff, he was later given the nickname 'The Fonz'. We were directed to our room, which was a second storey basic affair, though to be honest I've stayed in far worse in the past. Suitcases opened and feeling refreshed it was time to tentatively find Skiathos town which thankfully was about eight minutes walk away. So off we headed not really knowing what to expect.

What we found surpassed my expectations, a lovely little town perched by the Aegean, whitewashed Greek buildings disguising a veritable maze of alleyways containing many a hidden treasure. It wasn't long before we found a bar owned by a couple of ex pats who furnished us with some knowledge of the locality. From then on in the holiday proper began.

The word Skiathos broken down means shadow and the second part refers to mount Athos which can allegedly be seen on a clear day from the island. Skiathos is probably one of the most beautiful places I've ever been, and I've visited a fair few places in my time. Everyday I got lost in fragrant alleys and streets festooned with all kinds of flora. I didn't see any litter, there's no McDonalds or KFC here either, sure there's a few gift shops but many sell local hand crafted gifts. Skiathos seems to nestle between two hills and thus contains a few ascents here and there, though nothing too taxing really, cutting through the centre of this small town is Papadiamanti street named after the islands famous author Alexandros Papadiamantis. This street leads away from the split new and old harbours which are divided by the tiniest of tree covered peninsulas called the Bourtzi and a ferry jetty to the other side of it. The Bourtzi was once a small fort in Venetian times but now houses a civil building and museum. Along both harbour fronts there's a myriad of Greek style restaurants of varying price, though generally more expensive than the ones in the back streets. Skiathos is an island where you can eat as expensively or cheaply as you want, for instance the harbour side restaurants can charge anything from €20 upwards whilst I was eating very sizeable portions of Greek food on the back streets for as less as €4. Drinks vary in price too, so its best to ask beforehand but that said they are often large measures and the Greeks being generous sorts you find yourself with more than the odd free drink. There's many taverna's worth seeking out in and around the town.

I was told the months of May and September are best to visit, June and July are very hot and as an ex pat put it to me 'The streets and alleys are so busy it seems a horde of sunburnt penguins have taken over'. People from all over Europe, including Greece descend on the small island from June until August and the population swells from the six thousand inhabitants to a staggering eighty thousand so I was told. It's in this quarter that the Greeks make their money as the winter months are considerably colder and quiet, flights to the island ending around the 10th October. If you want to visit after then its a flight to Athens, a drive to Volos and then a ferry to Skiathos, flights begin again in the spring time.

Anyway that's enough of the factual stuff what other things did I do? Well apart from exploring the town itself and surrounding area I went on a couple of tours one which took us over to the mainland and the lovely small fishing village of Kati Yorgis. Seeing dolphins up close was definitely a magical moment and also knowing I was a few miles away from the famous pass of Thermopylae where some of you may knew a few hundred Greeks changed the course of history. The port of Volos from where my namesake led the Argonauts on their famous adventures wasn't too far away but sadly on this day at sea mount Athos seemed to be shrouded in a mystical haze. As I sailed on the azure blue Aegean that I sat imagining many things from antiquity that had happened in this stunningly beautiful part of the world. Dipping my hobbit feet into the Aegean all of my troubles and ailments seemed to fade into the background, I felt peaceful, I felt like I'd found something I'd lost long ago - for those brief moments between sea and sky everything seemed so simple and serene.

Of course I had other adventures too, the abandoned town of Kastro and its eerie emptiness. I sojourned briefly in the old town of Skiathos where I greeted an old Greek lady clad in black with 'Ya-Sas' (a general Greek 'hello/bye') and she turned and smiled warmly repeating it twice back to me with sincere conviction. The Greeks are lovely people, kind, giving, warm and love to laugh.

Oh and beer? Well I had more than a few but to be honest I drank more wine, Ouzo and Metaxa really. Apart from Mythos there's a few other continental lagers to slake your thirst but as I'm essentially more of a real ale person these days I partook sparingly.

In the grand scheme of things, my little Greek odyssey in Skiathos is probably a drop in the Aegean to what there is to do and compared to what others have done but for me personally it was a little interlude of beauty and some quality time spent with my dad, not to mention a bit of self discovery.

On the last night I sit beside old Petros once more, though I suspect he's probably in his mid fifties, years of adventure etched into his worn face. He's told me much of his experiences, working at sea, the former Yugoslav war and when he learned of the fact I live in Nottinghamshire he tells me for many years he slept with a book about Robin Hood under his pillow. We sit drinking a Macedonian bottle of spirits he'd produced, a clear liquid that pulls no punches when it courses down your throat. We laugh and joke with the barmen Nikolas, Adonis and my dad. Inside I feel pangs of sadness encroaching fast, I don't want to go home. The next day I see Petros one last time and solemnly say 'Petros, it is time for me to go'. He embraces me and reminds me of my Greek name and bids me safe journey. I turn and leave with the thought:

  "Fortune favours the bold" - Virgil, The Aeneid.