THE MOST ROMANTIC SUNSET
(inspired by September’s theme: “I told you I was right.”)
So, you ask how the holiday went! The first one without the kids. Daytime was good; we walked, swam, and explored the island. But the evenings!
Hubby was asleep by 10 o’clock while I sat in the bar with my book, indulging my people-watching habit.
That was how the holiday went for 6 days.
On the last evening, I was determined to do something different. I scoured the brochures and came across an article that fired my imagination.
“Listen to this,” I read excitedly, “The Greek sunset is the most romantic in the world. Gaze in awe as the sinking sun turns the blue Aegean sea into a seething inferno. Let’s go to that cove we visited yesterday – the one with the shipwreck!”
“It’s only an hour to sunset,” grumbled hubby, head in book, “It’ll be dark when we come back.”
“Don’t hire cars have lights?” I retorted, throwing his shoes across, “Come on, it’ll only take us 20 minutes to get there.”
“I hope you know the way,” he still grumbled as we set off down the gravel track.
I scrabbled on the floor for the map, “Um, we turn off at that olive grove, the one where we saw that funny tree – Look out!”
A scooter, on it’s side, hurtled round the bend towards us, followed by a youth on foot, nursing his gravel rash. He picked up the bike and limped past, pausing only to unleash a torrent of Greek abuse.
“Don’t know why he’s swearing at us,” said hubby, “it’s not our fault he fell off his darned bike. Where is this turning?”
“This must be it, I remember that funny olive tree,” I said.
Well you know, one olive tree looks much like another, doesn’t it?
“Are you sure this is right?” he asked ten minutes later.
“Yes, look, there’s the sea ahead. Turn right at this junction.”
“But, if we do that the sea will be on our left, it should be on the right.”
“Just do it,” I snapped, “there’ll be a left turn in a few yards.”
There wasn’t, of course. Just a signpost which read ‘Tsivili, 10 km’.
“That’s the opposite direction!” he yelled, performing a u-turn just in front of the truck he’d spent five minutes overtaking. “We’ve crossed to the other side of the island.”
“I don’t think it’s far now,” I said appeasingly, “Look out!”
This, as an ancient tractor laboriously pulled out in front of us, dragging a trailer of bouncing olives.
“That’s a 1950s Fergy,” He momentarily forgot his bad mood. “But it should have some lights on. I guess they’re taking the olives to be pressed. Which means they’re probably going to the same village as us. You might as well forget your cursed sunset.”
“I think the road straightens out ahead. You’ll probably be able to get past.”
The road didn’t straighten out, so we followed the ghostly shadow of the 1950s tractor all the way to the village.
Hubby pulled up sharply in the village square and turned off the engine.
“This is where we had coffee yesterday,” I observed, “but it’s another mile to the cove.”
“The sun’s nearly gone, you’ve missed your sunset. We’ll have a drink instead.”
He ordered a carafe of wine and a coffee.
“I can’t drink a whole carafe of wine,” I protested, “I’ll be plastered.”
“It’s not for you.”
“But you can’t drink and drive!”
He smiled thinly and passed me the coffee, “I’m not driving my dear, you are.”
I was astonished, “But it’s dark!”
“Don’t hire cars have lights?” he asked icily.
And, of course, hire cars do have lights. Unlike a 1950s tractor, on it’s way home from the olive press.
NAMES ON A PLAQUE (inspired by July's theme: The Volunteers)
They marched together, the Pals, heads held high, to the cheers of the crowd.
Geordie Adair, all 6ft 3 of him, mine shut and four bairns to feed.
John and Fred Campbell, inseparable from birth, receiving kisses from the women with that cheeky grin of theirs.
Tom Gilbert, underage. The others pretend not to know, though Geordie had a quiet word with him earlier. Tom is determined to return to his village as a hero.
Fourteen others from their village marched with them.
The village grew quiet as the marchers faded into the mist. The crowd turned away, eerily silent, even the children subdued, as the women silently wept. The elderly shook their heads as they shuffled away – they know about war, and doubt that their sons will be back for Christmas. The mine will need to reopen as the war grinds on, but there will be no miners left in this village.
They enjoyed the training, the Campbell twins always having been competitive, and Tom Gilbert displaying his boyish enthusiasm. Geordie lay on his bunk, listening to their bragging, and thought of home.
Embarkation day still saw them in high spirits, falling silent only as they contemplated the looming French coast, November-grey and misty.
Geordie Adair had a notebook and pencil; he sketched himself a calendar, ticking off each dragging day of trench life.
John Campbell railed against the trenches.
“Fight a war – all we do is dig, dig, dig. Bloody trenches and bloody tunnels!”
Geordie watched Tom Gilbert slump in the corner, nibbling his nails. A shell had exploded behind the trench, blasting one of the Scottish lads with a hail of shrapnel. Tom, close by, was showered with the man’s blood and tissue. The boy had wet himself, but no one mentioned it. Many a grown man had done the same.
Fred joined in, “Got us digging another trench at the front now, what’s that all about?”
Geordie had pondered on the same, but kept his conclusions to himself.
Tom stirred, “What’s the date, Geordie? Are we still June?”
“June 30th, Tom lad.”
The boy brightened momentarily, “It’s my birthday tomorrow, 1st of July. I’ll be 18. I lied about my age.”
Geordie whistled admiringly, “You don’t say! Buy you a drink when we get home, I will.”
There was never much sleep in the trench.
Geordie watched the sky lighten and tried to picture his home. The sweet smell of summer, sparrows quarrelling in the hedgerows. He’d give anything to hear those birds again.
At 7.30, the whistles blew.
They’re not forgotten. Once a year, they’re remembered, names read out.
That is all they are now – names on a plaque.
George Adair 35, died 1st July, 1916
Frederick Campbell 24, died 1st July, 1916
John Campbell 24, died 1st July, 1916
Thomas Gilbert 18, died 1st July, 1916
And 14 others died 1st July, 1916
Names on a plaque.