May 2013

The Isle is Full of Noises

The Scops owl starts up every night with its unmisseable one note call.




If you really got your ear in, it would slowly drive you mad: the sound of a fire alarm battery running down. I love the Scops owl; small enough to sit on a human hand - about 5” high - with a hooked beak and expression of utmost ferocity, it clearly has no idea that it is not as impressively fierce or as romantically Gothic as its many cousins.

Scops Owl

Photo © Sharon Johnson

So, beep beep, like clockwork every evening... Meanwhile, Igor, the white dog next door on the goat-and-chicken smallholding (equally unaware of how small and, in his case, fluffily unimpressive, he is) opens up, newly surprised by it every night. Maria, Igor’s owner, shouts at him to pipe down. Eventually the Albanians down the lane’s bigger, gruffer, scarier dog joins in.

Beep. Yip. Beep. Yip. Igor! Yip beep yip.

IGOR! Kakos skylos! Yip!

WOOF! Snarl.



In May the Ionian nightscape is all wonder: fireflies and a million upon million stars. Points of light spark in the olive groves, and fill the skies from horizon to horizon.

Even the vast rubbish mountain outside my neighbour’s five year home improvement project has a strange and shimmering beauty. This is my other neighbour, the handsom luthier and professional bouzouki player of the serial romantic disasters.

He is restoring his nineteenth-century house. Just visible behind the spoil heaps of rubble, bags of cement turned into boulders by several long, wet Ionian winters, rotten floor boards, discarded white goods and bits of the last girlfriend but three’s car that he cannot, yet, bear to part with, the house is nearing magnificence and — who knows? — completion.

The stucco is a sort of Pompeian red, the window frames and shutters verdigris. But, he explains, the most recent girlfriend chose the colours and now – to live with the pain of memory or face the considerable labour of repainting the whole thing?

There are more elemental problems this year.

In the blackness of a winter’s night, a tornado struck the island. It tore through the 500 year old olive groves, wresting up the vast trees, lifting the occasional roof.

A narrow strip of island, formerly a place of dense woodland and dappled light, was reduced to stumps and jagged shards, a 40 metre wide strip of violent destruction.

My little hamlet was on the edge of it.


My terrace garden – formerly a shady bower under the ancient olive and fragrant lemon trees, hidden from the world - is now a sunlit open space, overlooked by goats, Igor (yip) , my elderly neighbours (wave), and the young Albanian family who have set up an alfresco sitting room furnished with the ubiquitous white plastic chairs, on the hillside above me. There they wave and, of an evening, roast lamb (or, I hope, goat) and, on special occasions, sing very long songs into the night.

But my musician neighbour laments only the two great pine trees, which, before the tornado, stood below his house. ’They were like lovers’ he says , ‘for so long, leaning towards each other. And now,’ he sighs, ‘it is finished. Like always. Broken.’

I have lunch with my Greek friend down the road. ‘That rubbish heap is disgusting’ she says. ‘What he needs is a woman.’