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The other day I went to the Hora and had my hair cut. You have to be around 60 plus to get that final reference, but he was a pointy-eared extra-terrestrial puppet operated by Ray whatsisname google it methavrio the famous BBC TV ventriloquist whose lips, believe me, I could easily see twitch and move, though admittedly not much. Even now with IT being what it is, I could in based here in Kythnos, be of quite virtuoso brilliance on the dear old BBC radio at Friday night Asid raja Nalo nama, Virasenasuto bali, upapanno gunair istai rupavan ashvakovidah …. Applied to me, I think only the upapanno gunair istai is accurate. And yes, the digression began with the fact that my hair always covers my pointy ET ears, which is just how I want it. I hide what I do not wish the world to see, and that is shell-shaped Enid Blyton pixie ears, one of which I could swear sticks out more, like a nosy pup or kitten, than its other more retiring and altogether more sensible colleague. Ditto certain women in northern provincial UK dance clubs, they who buy extra long pearl buttoned cardigans to cover their jigging backsides, and whose posterior size or shape they would prefer to keep a delightful mystery. Until perhaps with the strobe lit passage of the endless evening, they reach the no going back panting intimacy stage, after 17 rum and peps and fifty, no more like sixty, Marlboro Lites. Funny how tarry, nicotiney and coke and cheese and onion and crisp flavoured breath, is less of an objective worry than an outsize Mancunian or Liverpudlian female behind, whose notional bigness is probably only in the mind of its owner. Outsize or protruding ears, are a much more serious problem. I knew a man with this affliction about my age, who embezzled the entire funds of a benign community work project down in Leicestershire in He buggered off to India, like we all did in those days, and lived the life of a sybarite maharaja until he ran out of funds. At length and pig sick, he came back to the UK and surrendered himself to the police. They briefly stuck him in a cell before he went out on bail, and the night he was in clink he actually punched a large hole with his fist in the door, he felt so angry at being thus constrained. Sorry, but I cannot resist an apposite digression here. Look up top and see my reference to Deep Purple, the majestically druggy rock band, who were well set in their most competent hallucinogenic ways in the late s. As a result, I and one or two others were turfed out for the night and put in rear room quarters elsewhere. The day I got back, get this, there was a bloody great hole in my door, and I have never ever played Deep Purple since. In the end that masterstroke of bringing the jury to tears ah poor boy, so it was just the dear old lugs after all, it was just his damned old dear old lugs, bless him! He got off on an ingenious technicality, which was that the embezzled money was an account in his own name, as well as that of other community project signatories. In effect, it was his own admittedly whopper overdraft, and even in those days, back in pre-Mesozoic , having an overdraft was not a criminal offence, and there was no Dickensian Marshalsea even for the likes of talk-the-robin-off-a-starch-box him. I had my beard and tash trimmed by Sotiria who is 24, wide eyed, and heavily pregnant. She charges a risible 5 euros, whether you have a haircut plus beard trim, or just the trim. I always give her a few euros tip, and she grins and uses her two words of English, theng you! She gets married any time now to a fisherman called Mano, who is maybe in his early thirties. She knows already that the baby will be a girl and she will be called after her Nana, Chrisoula. In those days her feckless husband sometimes clandestinely attempted the topiary snipping himself, and you would not credit the scissor cum hacksaw slashing that produced a moustache even Salvador Dali would not have been proud of. It looked as if a ferret had been let loose on my lips and decided to gnash away till it had won an award for its labours. Appalled, Annie took to doing the tash clipping herself, and always made a very professional job of it. I usually went to the nearest small town to have my hair cut, and by the mid 60s I defiantly went very rarely. The one nearest the bus station was part of a county wide chain, and had a man of 21 and another of 23 to do the snipping. The younger man was gay, though the word was not used outside the context of merry or light-hearted, in those days. His nickname locally was Pipe Cleaner, as he was so amazingly skinny. I was fourteen in the summer of , and had started growing my hair as long as I could, and fuck what you, the school, or the village or the dear old nuclear family think. This infuriated my Dad who was emphatically the least furious soul in the universe, as he left all that ranting and roaring and shouting to my mother, who was a peerless and passionate expert at all modes of expostulation, believe me. As explained in an earlier piece of mine, when I had long centre parted hair and was beardless, I looked very much like a girl not a boy. This drove my Dad truly bonkers, the factory hand who had no idea how to cope with the Jungian or Freudian niceties of gender, archetypes, Oedipus, Electra, or anything else. No amount of ridicule from him would make me get my hair cut short, so the ingenious old soul went and tipped Pipe Cleaner to give me a damn good tonsure the next time I was in, whatever protests were to hysterically issue forth from the indignant fruit of his loins. I sat there in the chair while Pipe Cleaner clipped away and then went on clipping and went on clipping and went on clipping…. He wants to see it good and short, so he says. I could not believe it, as I sat there numb and frozen, and as Pipe Cleaner kept on hacking away. As a kid I was never obedient or accommodating by any stretch of the imagination, and I could have lifted up and yanked off his fucking pinny, and fled for the hills of industrial pit waste between here and my home village. But instead, as if hypnotised, I allowed the skinny barber to do his worst. It was a chilling and objective irony at the time that Pipe Cleaner was facing something much worse than me anticipating the laughter of my schoolmates, now that I was well and truly scalped. Pipe Cleaner and about ten other gay youths had recently been arrested for indecency in the public toilets in a small Lake district town about thirty miles away. This was 3 years before the Wolfenden Report and homosexuality was still a much despised crime. Neither in early 60s UK, did they treat you with kid gloves. They put your trial six months head, and everyone knew about it, and you had two hundred appalling days of truly hellish waiting to know God knows what. Maybe that was why Pipe Cleaner obeyed my Dad with the scalping, maybe he genuinely thought it would make him more of a real and virile and proper Cumbrian man, not a Lunnon-style nancy puff, if he was the one to do the ritual scalping and obliterate the hideous hermaphrodite my Dad was convinced his son was turning into. When I got home my Dad crowed with delight and I gave him a look of loathing and I loathed him for the best part of a month. I feel no guilt about that month-long loathing, not even half a century on. If someone does something cowardly and offensive, they are truly loathsome, or at any rate they are while the memory of it lasts. Had I done anything remotely equivalent to my daughter Ione aged 14 in , I would sincerely have wished her to loathe me, end of story. These things are not always as inconsequential as a summer breeze, as they ultimately were in my own case. On the way home the mortified and humiliated boy had raced in front of an oncoming express train, and been mashed to pieces rather than face the world as shorn as an unwilling lamb…. I often wonder what happened to that father who was about forty-five when the tragedy happened. My guess is that he let his own hair grow very long, as a long established sign of spiritual penance for his foolish and unfatherly deed. On the way home the mortified and humiliated boy had raced in front of an oncoming express train, and been mashed to pieces rather than face the world as shorn as an unwilling lamb… I often wonder what happened to that father who was about forty-five when the tragedy happened. Share this: Twitter Facebook. 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Anyway, over those first few days I kept pondering and mulling and then one day I bit the bullet. After showing me the rooms at the Poseidon, we had a chat and I took the opportunity to ask about the car hire. She tells me that after the weekend there are a lot of cars free so I could have my pick. Great, I choose a class A car for the following day. Anyway, I convince myself that Lipsi is small and relatively flat. She tells me that the key is in the car and gives us directions on how to get onto the main road above the town. We set off along the harbour front and follow the road to the left at a small church. All starts off well with Peter as my navigator giving me directions on Google Maps though TBH his sense of direction is as diabolical as mine! Inside the church, the icon of Mary is unusual in that Mary is holding a wooden cross with a crucified Jesus on it and not as she is usually portrayed, with babe in arms. The outward-looking view from the church is rich and verdant and close by there is a field of grapevines so there is obviously a good level of fertility on the island. The Lipsi Winery grow several types of grape including Fokiano which is the oldest indigenous grape in the Aegean. The wine that is produced on the island is highly commended and since the Italian occupation of the islands, the wine has been sent to the Vatican. Peter guides us to Tourkomnima Beach. Once parked up under tamarisk trees we get out and have a scout around. The beach is secluded with only a couple of people here. Tourkomnima is the name of the peninsula that divides Tourkomnima and Xerocampos beaches. We feel compelled to walk towards the little church of Agios Nikolaos that sits about a third of the way along the peninsula. Down below there is a small jetty where there are a couple of little motorboats moored up. At the back of the beach, there is a small cluster of houses with some signs of new development. As we reach the tip, the view looking backwards is quite something. Xerocampos Beach to the left and Tourkomnima to the right. We return to the car and retrace our track back up onto the main road towards Panagia Charou. Between the houses, I get a glimpse of what I now know was Chochlakora Beach and it looks gorgeous. I ask Peter to wind down his window and take some snaps whilst I keep an eye out for any unsuspecting traffic. This beach has a long stretch of tamarisk trees and I read later that the beach is rocky but with very clear water. I make a note to come back later if we have time. We are now back on the road above the town and we stop the car a couple of times to take some photographs. Peter does a little bit of his goat whispering. He loves animals and they love him. Back home in Egypt where his father has land, he was raised to tend sheep, goats and water buffalo from a young age. Just la short walk away there is an amazing view out to the little islet of Aspronisi! We opt for Kamares and follow the road along. The road suddenly becomes a rocky track and my nerves begin to jangle. Oh my God, this is going to be Kythira all over again! The roadside is banked up on either side. We continue down and hope for the best. Peter gives him a nonchalant wave giving the impression that we are here intentionally and we know what we are doing. He waves back. At the bottom of this dirt and gravel track is a cluster of pine trees providing enough shade to park under. Beyond the trees, we walk by a low wall that separates the trees from the beach. It appears to have been constructed using the natural stone from the surrounding area. Needless to say, the beach is rocky — very rocky. The dry stone walling technique has also been applied to create a seating area around a solitary tree which offers the only shade on the beach itself. Some thought has gone into making the beach comfortable but unfortunately, these structures have been left at the hands of the elements. Nonetheless, the turquoise, crystalline water and the outward-looking view across to the surrounding islets are beautiful. Just out from the shoreline, there are some unusual rock formations. I can see that plates of rock lie under the water and assume that as this breaks up through the movement of the water, it gets thrown back onto the beach. Entering the water would be a nigh-on impossible task. If you like solitude, and you can cope with a rocky beach then this may be the one for you. After walking the length of the beach we get back into the car. We decide to move from the northeast of the island to Platis Gialis Beach in the northwest. I begin to drive up the stone track, waving to the man on the digger as we go. We reach a patch in the road where the wheels are just spinning in the dust. After several goes at trying to move the car forward I realise that the spinning wheels are creating a rut. If I continue we may get stuck and have to dig our way out with our hands. As we are on a steep incline, I let gravity do its own thing and allow the car to slowly roll backwards keeping my foot on the brake to control it. As the wheels spun, clouds of dust were sent shooting through the open windows and nearly choked us in the process. Peter got out and tried to push it at one point. Besides, the car by now is well and truly stuck in a deep rut. All sorts of things were running through my mind. Surely the island has a tote truck? Although rather embarrassing, at this point any dignity we may have had has gone out of the window. Peter walks over to the man who has now climbed down from the digger. I can see Peter is using a lot of body language to explain our predicament though nothing really needs to be said whilst the man slowly drew on his cigarette taking it all in. About 5 minutes later Peter returns to the car. I exhale deeply and try and weigh up the possible outcomes. I can see that the man is speaking to someone on his phone. Maybe he knows someone with a utility vehicle — often the vehicle of choice on some islands. Maybe he will ask them to come and pull us to the top of the track. That will cost money but whatever it costs we will write it off and put it down to experience. We will sit and wait and see what unfolds — or even if anything unfolds at all. A long and nerve-wracking fifteen minutes later, out in the distance, we see three men striding across the landscape. In my mind, as I recount this, I imagine that the sky gets a little brighter and they are surrounded by flames. Think of Antonio Banderas in that famous scene in Desperado. They do a nod to the digger man who then leads them towards the forlorn-looking Celerio. The car is now covered in so much dust that it practically blends in with the landscape. He gets behind the wheel and the three men plus Peter push and shove the car until it has come loose from its rut. The smell of burning rubber is strong on the breeze. They push the car almost to the top of the track and for the last ten metres, it manages to propel itself onto level ground Phew! What an absolute relief. The three men depart as quickly as they arrived. He points down the track and says something about electricity. I can only assume that new power cables have been laid — hence the condition of the track but who knows? We give him our heartfelt thanks again and say our goodbyes. Just as we leave the track, two women on mopeds arrive. They took one look at the track and swiftly do a U-turn. We are now back on the main road above the town and we pull over to take in the view of Lipsi and its archipelago of islets just beyond. Just as we do, a blast from the horn of the Panagia Skiadeni announces her arrival. Now this really is a sight for sore eyes. Down below is Lientou Beach and the small promontory hiding the port from view. A little further along the road, a little place catches my eye. The sign painted on the wall says Giannilos Farma but what I can see are scores of bicycles. Bikes of all shapes, sizes and colours are strapped to the railings to form a fence of bicycles. Back in the car we now head for Platis Gialos beach purported to be the most beautiful beach on the island. My first impressions are that the beach really does live up to its reputation. There are a good number of well-established tamarisk trees along the beach offering shade and the sand runs from the beach out into the deep bay making the water appear in every shade of blue and turquoise that you can imagine. We secure a little spot under some shade for our bags and then swiftly cast our bodies into the calming waters. After shaking off the dust and the stress we realise how hungry we are and decide to eat at the beach taverna also known as Platis Gialos. Greek salad, chicken souvlaki and swordfish are just perfect for a lunchtime bite although unusually, accompanied by Coca Cola rather than with wine. After a couple of hours here we head back towards the main town on our way to Katsadia Beach. Along the way I had seen advertising signs for the Honey Farm. Every trip to Greece sees me going in search of a good quality honey and I always bring at least a kilo jar home with me. We park on the road close to the entrance of the farm but everywhere is shut up with no signs of life. This is a shame but hopefully we will be able to find it in one of the shops in the town before we leave. Katsadia Beach is in walking distance of Lipsi town though there are several cars parked up along the back of the beach. We take steps down onto the beach and can see that it is mainly families here. Dilaila Beach Bar and Restaurant is set just at the back of the beach and offers some lovely shaded seating areas. There are several yachts moored up in the bay so this is obviously a popular beach though certainly not crowded and this is in the middle of July. My views on what I saw on Naxos last year are already documented but it is refreshing to see the authorities clamping down on this money-grabbing and not to mention illegal profiteering. Before heading back to the town to return the car we give it a once over. We pull out the mats in the footwells and shake out as much dust from the inside of the car as we can. We use our towels to wipe the dust from the seats and dashboard. We use the last of our bottled water and a towel to wipe down the outside of the car but unfortunately, it has made it look worse. We have to let it dry and then wipe it with a dry cloth otherwise known as my lovely James Lakeland sarong. A small sacrifice to make in the grander scheme of things — it could have been worse! The car is returned to Vasoula with a full tank of petrol. Anyway, she knows who I am and where I work but hopefully everything is OK. Needless to say we end our day with a few swift drinks and try to shake off the memory of Kamares Beach as best we can! Where did the time go on Lemnos? My days have usually started with a simple breakfast on my small balcony overlooking an orchard of pomegranates, oranges and quince, almost all ready for harvesting. Yoghurt, local thyme honey, peaches and a cup of tea will more than suffice…. The three hour journey to Lesvos was very pleasant — despite being at an ungodly hour. The morning air was quite chilly so I sat in the comfort of the lounge. Anyway the early morning…. The Grandadults are going to the small water park today. OK, let me just clarify something. When I first came to Ikaria two years ago a particular song from the film…. A nice traditional taverna down by the marina just a short walk from Hotel Lesvion. Organising my family…. I think Wendy and I will use the local taxi service like I have done previously!! This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed. Skip to content. Lipsi Like this: Like Loading Previous Previous. Next Continue. Similar Posts. Yes me too. Let me know what you think. Home Blog Posts Toggle child menu Expand.

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