Rhodes - Day Four
All grumbles about the 7am start quickly disappeared when we caught sight of the sunrise over the Acropolis. Besides there was plenty of time to snooze on the bus as it toured the coastal road, picking up at all manner of other resorts, and allowing us to cast our eyes over the delights of Faliraki from the relative safety of our air-conditioned vehicle.
Our first stop (after some much-needed ice cream) was at the valley of the butterflies - a leafy gorge, teeming with beautiful brown butterflies who will colonise every available surface if it stays still long enough. Teeming too, unfortunately, with that particular breed of German tourist who will barge past without saying excuse me, or shoogle tree branches to agitate the resting butterflies into flight. Sadly, the measly hour allotted to us did not allow us enough time to reach the monastery at the top of the valley - the monks will have to wait until next time.
Our friendly coach driver took us to the coast for the obligatory holiday boat trip. With not a cloud in the sky, the hour-long ferry took us across the clear blue waters, the air so hot that the mountains of Rhodes were a distant, dusty haze. The perfect opportunity, then, for Laura to point suggestively into the distance and sing "Bali H'ai" in her best Polynesian accent...
The ferry deposited us at Chalki, a small one-town island, where the brightly-painted houses are nestled up the mountain overlooking the harbour. Like Balamory, but hotter, and with cleaner water.
We dashed off along the front, hoping to escape the rest of our coach party - though this proved unnecessary as they had already legged it to the beach to fry in the midday sun.
It's always a good sign when the adverts for a restaurant carry not a word of English. And an even better sign when the holiday rep from your coach plonks herself down in your otherwise empty taverna for a natter with the owner. Charlie's "tomato and feta" salad certainly could not be done under the trade descriptions act (being a large plate of feta. With tomatoes on top.) and the rest of the meals proved equally satisfying once they had arrived.
After our now-traditional mealtime attempt to scare off the Mangey Moggies of the Mediterranean, we took ourselves off down the road to the nearest sandy beach. After a brief paddle, I beached myself on a rock with a jolly good book. However, since the rock was too pointy for my bum and the sand too hot to stand on, there was nowt for it but to take myself off for a wander.
I left Ewan in the sea, attempting to beach a helpless Laura, and headed in the direction of the nearest pretty church, perched atop a hillside. Sadly, the churchyard was locked when I got there, but there were still ample photo-opportunities.
I was somewhat perplexed by the chicken who crossed the road in front of me, but before I had time to ask the age-old question, it became apparent that it really was trying to get to the other side, since that's where all his rooster-friends were.
I continued down the road for some more panoramic views and was somewhat perplexed when a couple of English chaps I recognised as two of our coach party asked me for directions. What it was about this pasty ginger, that gave the air of a local Greek-island-dweller, I have no idea...
Then I realised that half an hour had passed and it was already 3.30 - our alloted time for departing the beach. I attempted to sprint back to the others, but it proved impossible in the oppresive heat of the unmitigated afternoon sun. I was relieved to find that the others were not tapping their feet impatiently when I returned; and mortally embarrassed when it transpired that I had read my watch upside down and it was in fact only three o'clock...
We ambled back to the boat with time, and ice-cream, to spare. The return journey and relaxed meal in our hotel bar passed almost without incident, save that our friendly waitress waited for Ewan's absence before clearing our plates, joking about her previous cutlery assault. And as she turned to address us, more cutlery flew from the bundle of plates in her hand and we collapsed in to giggles as returned sheepishly to the bar.
Our first stop (after some much-needed ice cream) was at the valley of the butterflies - a leafy gorge, teeming with beautiful brown butterflies who will colonise every available surface if it stays still long enough. Teeming too, unfortunately, with that particular breed of German tourist who will barge past without saying excuse me, or shoogle tree branches to agitate the resting butterflies into flight. Sadly, the measly hour allotted to us did not allow us enough time to reach the monastery at the top of the valley - the monks will have to wait until next time.
Our friendly coach driver took us to the coast for the obligatory holiday boat trip. With not a cloud in the sky, the hour-long ferry took us across the clear blue waters, the air so hot that the mountains of Rhodes were a distant, dusty haze. The perfect opportunity, then, for Laura to point suggestively into the distance and sing "Bali H'ai" in her best Polynesian accent...
The ferry deposited us at Chalki, a small one-town island, where the brightly-painted houses are nestled up the mountain overlooking the harbour. Like Balamory, but hotter, and with cleaner water.
We dashed off along the front, hoping to escape the rest of our coach party - though this proved unnecessary as they had already legged it to the beach to fry in the midday sun.
It's always a good sign when the adverts for a restaurant carry not a word of English. And an even better sign when the holiday rep from your coach plonks herself down in your otherwise empty taverna for a natter with the owner. Charlie's "tomato and feta" salad certainly could not be done under the trade descriptions act (being a large plate of feta. With tomatoes on top.) and the rest of the meals proved equally satisfying once they had arrived.
After our now-traditional mealtime attempt to scare off the Mangey Moggies of the Mediterranean, we took ourselves off down the road to the nearest sandy beach. After a brief paddle, I beached myself on a rock with a jolly good book. However, since the rock was too pointy for my bum and the sand too hot to stand on, there was nowt for it but to take myself off for a wander.
I left Ewan in the sea, attempting to beach a helpless Laura, and headed in the direction of the nearest pretty church, perched atop a hillside. Sadly, the churchyard was locked when I got there, but there were still ample photo-opportunities.
I was somewhat perplexed by the chicken who crossed the road in front of me, but before I had time to ask the age-old question, it became apparent that it really was trying to get to the other side, since that's where all his rooster-friends were.
I continued down the road for some more panoramic views and was somewhat perplexed when a couple of English chaps I recognised as two of our coach party asked me for directions. What it was about this pasty ginger, that gave the air of a local Greek-island-dweller, I have no idea...
Then I realised that half an hour had passed and it was already 3.30 - our alloted time for departing the beach. I attempted to sprint back to the others, but it proved impossible in the oppresive heat of the unmitigated afternoon sun. I was relieved to find that the others were not tapping their feet impatiently when I returned; and mortally embarrassed when it transpired that I had read my watch upside down and it was in fact only three o'clock...
We ambled back to the boat with time, and ice-cream, to spare. The return journey and relaxed meal in our hotel bar passed almost without incident, save that our friendly waitress waited for Ewan's absence before clearing our plates, joking about her previous cutlery assault. And as she turned to address us, more cutlery flew from the bundle of plates in her hand and we collapsed in to giggles as returned sheepishly to the bar.