Down on the Beach (virtually Chris Rea free)

I did have a perfect day at the beach. It was a long drive down a dirt road. One of the first times ever I was grateful to be in a four by four in Greece, where the main reason as far as I can see for owning an 'Off Road' vehicle is the alarming number of times that you will find yourself driving/parking/drunkenly straying onto the pavement in Athens.

As with everywhere we've been so far on Astypalaea it was windy, but it was hot at the same time giving the beach the feeling that you were sitting in a hand dryer.

After an initial blatant row with a couple (actually just with the woman, the guy was cool with us sharing his shade) over a grass-thatched umbrella, we retreated to a tree further up the beach. There was a beach bar, playing endless Reggae (is this some kind of international law?) and a spirited barman who was actually polite and efficient.

But my perception of the place changed entirely when I got in the water. The water was wonderfully warm and sloped off to deep very quickly. What's more there were rocks that you could climb up and dive into deep water. I suppose that was the most important thing. The blissful experience of repeatedly diving into clear water without fear of going too deep, without fear of hitting the bottom. Even though I didn't have goggles, the view through the blue water of rocks and weeds and sunlight through the water was strangely relaxing. As if there was some immense satisfaction that came from finally being in a scene that might be in an advert or a James Bond film. Sooner than I would have liked, my arms got too tired to lift me out of the water to let me climb the rocks to dive in again for another perfect Bond/advert moment. I sat under our uncontested tree and allowed myself to be dried by the hand-drier wind. And sipped sodas (no way can I drink alcohol in this dessicating heat) server up by the spirited barman who looked like the singer in Captain Hook. I suppose it was an 'If you're drinking Bacardi' kind of bar. Has any other advert ever so perfectly written its own parody? There were scantily-clad women barely in bikinis and men with hairy chests. Actually not so much the chests, but the faces. Many of them were sporting Chris Rea beards. It flickered at the back of my mind that at some point the reggae might stop and... No it's too awful to contemplate. I'd already been scarred by the experience of seeing the caldera in Satorini to the soundtrack of "Road to Hell." Many of the Greek men might have been the west midlands dirge-smith. Middle-age spread had started early and many seemed to be reassuringly flabby. A fair few sported tantalising moobs.

Despite the perfect water, everybody seemed in a bad mood. Maybe it was the hot wind, maybe was that annoying feeling that after such a precipitous daredevil ride on a moped, you could expect Vatses beach on the tiny island of Astypalaea to yourself, maybe the women in the bikinis felt they deserved better that moob-toting Rea-beardies. Maybe it was the realisation that the beach had made it into a German guide book meaning that it was only matter of time before those weirdest of tourists, the French Swiss started defending sections of the beach with elaborate layouts of towels, building of cairns and the occasional alarming flash of mahogany testicles.

But skidding our way back up the "off-roaders' wet dream pass" (this aint no technological breakdown...), I found myself singing gently to myself 'Pearly Dew Drops Drops' by the Cocteau Twins. It had been a dreamy day and that is the dreamiest song my subconscious knows, down on the beach.
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