Nixta Sinks

Do you have baggages? Leave it on us!

Back from two and a bit wonderful weeks in Oia, Anafi and Athens I find myself working Greek style. Barely, with a fag in my mouth, and covered in olive oil.

From blowing smoke at Michael Douglas to roughing it on 50 threadcount sheets, riding quadbikes to visit old hags in huts outside monasteries to sinking MX5s in volcanic ash, enjoying a fruit platter in Business Class to a 2 hour queue in Athens Airport for a 30 second piece of paper (Athens BA lounge, folks, has no champagne by the way, and BA staff are as Greek - read useless - as Olympic were last year), it was a hoot and a holler.

Our introduction to Athens was the accompanying wonderfully researched sign. Note the red-jacketed, traditionally dressed porter about to break out into a Hassapikos.

Thankfully Greece soared above that for the next 15 days until we got back to Athens when taxis ripped us off, BA tried to screw us over, and the heat and pollution tried to heat-wrap us in floating plastic.

One thing that struck me was this: Are the Greeks really good looking Scots in a tan? They drink uproariously, they dance interconnected and hurledly, they talk loudly, are a very proud people, wear skirts at official functions and play wind instruments made of animal bladders. And just as the Scots detest the English, so the Greeks detest the Turks. Well, most people actually, but particularly the Turks.