Lonely Monks and the Rise and Fall of Greek Cuisine

Before leaving the boat, everyone made sure that they were respectfully attired. This meant, despite the heat, wearing long trousers, shirts and closed shoes. It proved almost disastrous in the case of my feet, who still don’t forgive me for the Spanish tortures I put them through. But, there was a higher power commanding our dress code– we were to visit a 13th century monastery, and to this day, only the shoehorn of God can force my wild extremities into prisons of leather and rubber.

A half-mile across the water was the island of Stamfani, the larger of the two Strophades Islands. Almost abandoned by the mainland altogether, these two rocks are anchored in an isolated time warp at least a day’s journey from anywhere on a sane map. Both Stamfani and its smaller cousin, Arpia, have been all but reclaimed by low-lying forest; the type of dense pine that hits the ground like a screaming toddler and refuses to be picked up by parental sea winds.

Stamfani’s pockets of humanity constituted the monastery, a small farm, a chapel and, on the opposite side of the island, an automated lighthouse and abandoned shack. Long ago the monastery had housed a flourishing community of scholastic priests, a stout breed of Greek whose anti-Turkish stubbornness is commemorated by a monument on the island. Now, however, their numbers have dropped to one.

“The poor man,” Simone said, wrapping a towel around her bikinied body, “he must have been scandalised, watching all of us swimming in almost nothing.”

At first glance Simone was right. The monk, traumatised by the sinful sight of bare, female flesh, must have locked himself in a pit beneath the monastery, refusing to stop whipping his scarred back until the devil-worshippers had left his sight.

So, we took our time exploring the otherwise uninhabited island.

There was an eerie air over the land. It was enhanced by the large numbers of birds, squawking and pecking everywhere, as if they’d overthrown their human masters in a swift “chicken coup”. Dad and I split off from the group, making our way overland towards the distant lighthouse. Our passage was halted a few times by tree walls and sea cliffs, but finally we found a track through the forest. The heat and sounds of the island instantly vanished, inhaled and held by the tree lungs around us. We followed the twisting path for quite a way, falling deeper and deeper into the romance of this abandoned island.

Our efforts in finding it were to such a level that the lighthouse itself proved to be a disappointing reward. A derelict house sat at its base, and the lighthouse was boarded up: solar panels and light sensors now controlled its nocturnal duties.

My disappointment was further fuelled when, reuniting with the others, we learnt that the monk had made an appearance.

Long years of isolation had eroded his strict, Orthodox tenets and, more tragically, his mind. Rather than the pious hermit we’d expected, the monk of Stamfani was an old man, closing the gates on his nineties, and unable to symmetrically trim his beard.

He was also more naked than any of us had imagined, only wearing a pair of dirty underwear to protect his dignity.

Not really wanting to talk, the monk barked at Paolo “Italiano!”, before retreating into his shed behind the monastery.

Curses! I had traded away the sight of a senile, indiscreet monk in exchange for an old building in a forest. So much for Frost’s road less travelled.

That night we slept in shallow waters just off the shore of Arpia Island. Some strange creature, most likely a flesh-eating bird, tormented us from the darkness with a call that sounded like a helium-high child choking on coagulated phlegm. Though we found nothing the next day, I can assure you all that these monsters are the reason why the Strophades are uninhabited, save for an old man who probably thinks that he’s a bird anyway.

From the fierce shores of Strophades, we came to the mainland Peloponnese, and found ourselves under the stern watch of the “eyes of the Serene Republic”. Back in the 15th century, the twin ports of Methoni and Koroni were important stop over points for pilgrims and traders making their way to and from the Holy Lands. The Venetians, who’d provided a lot of the transport for Crusaders, had claimed a healthy chunk of the Eastern Mediterranean for their spoils, extending their republic and monopolising the lucrative Medieval tourist market. Situated as they are on either side of the first finger of the Peloponnese, the fortresses of both Methoni and Koroni were perfect sites from which the Venetians could keep track of all naval movement through their waters.

After saying goodbye to Simone in Methoni, we sailed around to Koroni, passing an isolated midway beach that, due to its large population of nudist tourists, probably has the Republic in a constant state of cross-eyed lechery.

That night in Koroni we talked about the flux in food quality on our travels. My experience of Greece so far has demonstrated that food does not change too much from region to region: you will find the same meals of Greek salad, tzatziki and mousaka no matter where you go. However, what does change is the quality and appearance of the food. For example, I’m a big fan of taramasalata, the fish roe dip, and I’ve now had it in varying shades from blood pink to cream and sometimes mixed with potato instead of yoghurt.

Such a concentrated education in Greek cuisine means that, after a short period of time, you become very sick of pedestrian food, and will only stomach that last piece of feta if it’s actually of decent quality. It’s a shame to become so picky, but the sad truth is that a lot of restaurants in this part of the world (to be fair, this happens all over the world, but I’m limiting my observations for this point) are catering more to the romance of the history and culture, rather than providing good quality meals.

So, when you’re in a tourist-rich town, such as Koroni, you have to be very careful where you go to eat. If you’re surrounded by Greek tourists, then you’re in a pretty safe spot, but if all you can hear is German and English, then you’re in trouble. The mousaka on your plate will be filled with overly rich béchamel sauce, the feta will be too dry, and the mussels will be from New Zealand.

The only place where this rule-of-thumb doesn’t hold sway is the Strophades. There’s a good chance that the last monk was eaten by the mad, naked imposter we met, and any culinary experience under those circumstances is going to be one filled with blood, terror and questionable cuts of meat.

No bad feta though – be thankful for small blessings.

Flash

“4...3...2...1...Let’s go!”

Rocket-propelled, our taxi shot onto the opposite side of the road, overtaking the ambling SUV ahead of us as houses and trees blurred into streaks. Simone and I had sold our souls to the devil in the hope of finding internet access at Laganas, the party capital of Zakynthos.

Free flesh, flashing lights, touts and drink coupons are all that this part of the world produces. The language of choice is English, followed closely by German, but everyone fits a standardised model of debauchery; bikinis worn at night, strip shows next to tour boat offices and drinking until your words slur and shift into someone else’s mouth. Don’t even think of going to a club before midnight, because it’s still asleep. The main strip is a nursery – screaming infants wail their dance beats and flash UV light, all the same except for name and the colour of the door girl’s hair.

Across the salty water floats Marathonisi Island. Serene and dark, its turtle shape matches the form of its inhabitants, the endangered loggerhead turtles that lay their eggs on its soft, white beach. Sixty days later hatchlings pop their heads out and follow the glowing mask of the full moon to plunge safely into sea waters.

And then Laganas awoke and exploded a constant stream of bright light from the opposite direction. In droves, baby turtles now follow the footsteps of British youth and party to death upon the shore.

“Yeah, it’s a shame, but the turtles are alright y’know, people are looking after them. Sometimes you gotta think, maybe people care more about the turtles than the rest of us,” Dave, a barman from Coventry, told me.

This is the literal line in the sand here in Laganas. Local tourism wants to claim the same level of party dollars as the other big, fat, Greek islands in the Aegean, but they’re facing stiff competition from the turtles, whose advocates are now taking the issue of their protection to the European Court of Justice.

My vote is for the turtles.

Laganas and its plastic atmosphere were a far cry from our previous anchorage in Porto Vromi. Hidden away in the rough heights of north-western Zakynthos, Vromi is a tiny bay packed with local tour boats. These boats are run by family enterprises that take tourists to see the Navagio shipwreck, as well as a few caves, before enticing customers back to their taverna for the evening meal.

While we had already seen the shipwreck, we were all famished, so Daniela waved down a passing boat to inquire about food options in the area. This whimsical moment brought two elements into our life. Firstly, we were introduced to Yiannis, a member of the extensive family associated with Alexandra’s Taverna. Second, and more importantly, we met Nikolas the Don of Porto Vromi.

Nikolas is a compact man, shorter than most, but with sinewy muscles and an impressively tanned chest that is always on display. His face is like a squashed cousin of Ian Holm’s, and his eyes constantly scan the waters around him – he appeared to be Porto Vromi’s lifeguard.

I say appear, because the folk of Porto Vromi were not isolated to single occupations. Yiannis, who drove tourists around the sights, also made olive oil and wine, while his nephew, Dionysus, operated a similar tour service when not working as a waiter in his parent’s taverna. Yiannis drove me up to his sister’s taverna on our first night in Vromi and we chatted in a halting fashion, neither really knowing anything in the other’s language. Even so, we quickly found common ground.

“You from Sydney? You know Mary Quill?” Yiannis asked.

“No, I don’t, sorry. Who is she?” I replied, confused.

“What? You don’t know? Mary Quill! Mary Quill! Big street!”

A gear ticked over.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHH, you mean Marrickville, yes?” I asked.

“Yes! Yes! Marrickville, I was born twenty years when I visit there. My father’s brother, he lives there!”

I told Yiannis that it was a very small world, because Marrickville – the one thing he knew about Sydney – was the suburb where I’d lived until just recently. However, Yiannis didn’t understand what I meant by “small world”, and the conversation ended there.

So, let’s return to Nikolas. When not saving lives, Nikolas would ferry folk from boat to shore at Vromi. He did this completely for free, refusing tips and repaying gifts with shouted beers and food at the cantina on the beach. Over the two days we spent moored here, Nikolas became a surrogate part of Felicite and showed us around the amazing sea grottoes that honeycomb the cliffs of this island.

One cave in particular is a big favourite in these parts. Called Poseidon’s Face, it is a cave where a collection of eroded stalactites form the face of a man when viewed from a certain angle. Nikolas presented us with some snapshots of him staring at the face, which appeared to be wearing Oakley sunglasses. He was very proud of this piece of trick photography, and copies could be purchased at the cantina.

On our last day in Vromi, Simone and I took another physical challenge and walked seven kilometres from this cantina to Alexandra’s Taverna. Nikolas, having seen us trek off in nothing more than thongs (flip-flops for any Northern Hemisphere folk reading this), summoned a dark Mercedes to offer us a lift. We explained that we were actually enjoying the walk and the car drove off.

Further ahead, we stopped in at another taverna for a drink of water. The owner, who Dionysus would tell us was an enemy of his family, was equally bemused to hear about our intentions of walking, and offered us the use of his car. Again we refused, and continued along the steep, snaking roads through olive groves and goat paddocks.

Nikolas was our guest of honour that night. Earlier in the day, Dad had leant over to me and whispered, “I wonder what this guy’s angle is, being so helpful to us?” Daniela had insisted that we were all being too cynical and that this part of the world was just genuinely generous. For the record, Daniela is mostly correct.

Though he didn’t eat anything, Nikolas joined our table and communicated through his broken English/Italian that he wanted to share some photos with us. These, he explained, were a gift from some tourists. It became apparent quite quickly, however, that the tourists in the photos did not have Nikolas in mind when they took them; random photos of faces, places and events far removed from Vromi flashed across the computer screen. When pushed, Nikolas admitted that these photos were “left behind” more than they were “given”.

Changing the mood with a hand clap, Nikolas produced a new collection of photos, which he insisted were his. As he ordered and consumed more and more wine, Nikolas pointed to the slide show of artistic trees and sparkling coves, saying “Porto Vromi” to indicate where they were taken and then “Nikolas” to suggest that he was the photographer.

The slide show wound on, occasionally presenting an interesting photo, but our eyes started to glaze over.

And then we saw buttocks.

So began a parade of voyeuristic photos, capturing unaware Europeans in various states of undress , and all to the excited tune of “Porto Vromi! Nikolas!” Apparently, Nikolas felt that now was the perfect time to expose us to his very private collection.

By the end of the night, all fleshed out, we returned to Felicite. Along the way Nikolas pointed out what appeared to be a kid’s treehouse, built beside where the tour boats were moored. He tapped his chest and said, “Casa Nikolas”, before inviting Paolo up to spend the night with him. His generous offer was politely turned down.

Though Nikolas returned to say goodbye to us the next morning, I was downstairs, so my final sight of the Don of Porto Vromi was as a silhouette, sitting by his window with candle light and mournful Greek music drifting out across still waters toward our boat.

Someone should have told him that brighter lights may have attracted more flesh to Vromi. Or at least a pet turtle to keep him company.

Leaving Juba

JUBA, SUDAN - 1980
This was a heat not made for mortals.

Anco and Paolo wavered where they stood and lemming sweat leapt off them into the atmosphere. For Paolo, this felt like the end. Malaria had ignited a second inferno within him, and everything down to his bones was singeing into tissue-thin carbon. But at last he was leaving Juba.

The airport was little more than a box built around a few desks, and the hordes of sweaty commuters clambering over one another transformed it into a battery farm. Only one plane a day was scheduled to land in Juba – bound for Khartoum – and weeks had passed since the last one hit the tarmac. Without any money to pay for petrol, Sudan Air had effectively forsaken the people of Juba, no matter what their purpose or place.

A radio announcement from Khartoum had signalled the arrival of a plane that day. Hordes crashed upon the airport in the hope of a seat.

The flight plan was a haphazard itinerary. From Juba, it would fly to Nairobi in Kenya, at which point it would fly back to Juba. There were no landing lights at Juba airport, so if the plane did not arrive by 6pm when the sun set it would simply carry on to Khartoum. Passengers bound for Khartoum faced the gamble of either buying an extra ticket to Nairobi or waiting in the hope that Sudan Air’s pilots were more efficient than its accountants.

Paolo’s burning state left no room for chance, so he and Anco bought the extra ticket; a relatively cheap fee for the wallets of UN contractors. This fact did not escape the attention of the customs official – a brick wall draped in military garb, with a firearm but no shoes.

“You are Italian, yes?”

Anco and Paolo nodded.

“Then you should be heading north to Khartoum, not Nairobi – why have you each bought two tickets?”

Anco and Paolo explained that they were not gambling men.

“Fucking capitalists, you don’t care if you waste a cent. Get out of here and stop ruining this country.”

The official stamped their passports and gruffly ushered them through to the plane.

ITHACA, GREECE – 2008
Paolo calls them UFOs – useless floating objects. These giant motor yachts tear through the water, haemorrhaging expensive diesel at the rate of ten euros a minute. Their passengers lounge either on deck or below, but never behind the controls, as they prefer to hire crew in the usual white shorts and shirt uniform. For Paolo, who enjoys the challenge and sustainability of sailing, there does not seem to be any purpose to owning a motor boat at all.

“These people do not care about anything except looking like they have money to spend, and the money goes nowhere, nothing, out into the water. When the oil is gone, what will they have? A useless thing sitting in an expensive marina, and I will still be out sailing.”

We could already see the effects of rising fuel costs and recession out here in the Ionian islands. Two years earlier, the harbour side cafes had swarmed with tourists from dawn to dawn, but now there was only a few buzzing about.

This did not really trouble us too much, but on the other hand it could prove costly to Ithaca. Without much in the way of agriculture, Ithaca’s major income is drawn from its sharing a name with the fabled homeland of Homer’s Odysseus. Myths have calcified in the scant ruins and caves on the island, which locals mine using adventure-seekers and dreamy students in place of picks and shovels.

In exchange, the tourists carve Ithaca’s main port of Vathi, shaping it into carbon copy restaurants touting Italian and British food, while kitsch Greek restaurants are exiled a kilometre beyond the town.

NAIROBI, KENYA – 1980
“Yes, an Italian flight will leave here three days from now, but if I were you, I’d stay onboard and fly back to Khartoum. There is a flight to Italy early tomorrow morning.”

Anco and Paolo thanked the friendly pilot and returned to their seats. Outside, Nairobi fluttered green and welcoming. Still, taut muscles wracked Paolo’s body and the necessity for a quick return outweighed Kenyan comforts.

Soon the plane leapt back into the sky, arcing north towards Sudan and, eventually, Rome. Anco and Paolo drifted off into a relaxed sleep.

THE INLAND SEA, GREECE – 2008
Mornings are peaceful in this part of the world, especially for sailors, as there is no wind until after lunchtime.

The Inland Sea is that part of the Ionian lapping between the western islands and the mainland. Compared to the naked waves of the open sea, the Inland is a gentle place that holds numerous interesting anchorages.

The island of Atokos rises steeply from the water, eliminating any chance of flat land except for the scant square metres that support the island’s only house. Sailors drop anchor in this “One House Bay” to swim in the warm, invisible waters during the day.

A more comfortable swim can be found in the south-eastern, unnamed bay of Oxia. This island is similar to Atokos, in that it has been pinched up into steep, narrow ridges, but it has recently seen the development of fish farms within its protected waters. We dropped anchor beside one of these; a short distance away were a couple of shacks made from old caravans perched nervously above the water to provide shelter for the farm’s custodians.

To guarantee stability in Oxia’s waters, a long line must be swum to shore and attached to a rock. Simone and I used this to propel ourselves across the water, using a free hand to keep our shoes dry. Once ashore we clambered up fossilised rocks and ascended the steep, pine coated land in an ape-like manner. Our senses were so taxed in an effort to avoid loose handholds that we did not notice the creamy coating of goat poo mixing with the sweat of our hands.

Returning from the top required a different tactic. Making sure that my bottom avoided planting itself in spiky bushes, I used my feet and hands as skis and ploughed down through pine needles and rocks in a controlled fall. Along the way, Simone’s inner botanist caught sight of wild sage, which she collected and stored in the pantry of her bra.

JUBA, SUDAN – 1980
“All passengers must disembark this flight for customs control.”

It was the third time that this announcement had come across the speaker, but Anco and Paolo were still in their seats. The plane had just made it to Juba in time, landing at 5:55pm. At first, customs had allowed those passengers continuing to Khartoum to remain onboard. But now, something had changed.

“You two’d better get off, otherwise we’ll never be able to leave here,” said the friendly pilot.

The same shoeless customs official stood blocking their entry into the airport. Duty had apparently erased his memory, as he didn’t seem to recognise either of the Italians. With a nonchalant flick, he opened their passports and looked over the Arabic departure stamp he’d planted himself hours earlier.

“Your visas have expired,” he said, stone-faced, “give me your passports and wait here.”

Paolo had had enough. For days he’d been trying to escape Juba, to return to Italy and the promise of malaria-free health, and he was not going to let a disgruntled soldier ruin his plans.

He told the official this.

“Say one more word, and I’ll put you in jail,” replied the guard.

MESSOLONGI, GREECE – 2008
Though he didn’t know it, Lord Byron came to Messolongi to die.

We came to pick up Paolo’s wife, Daniela.

A university town, Messolongi is situated on the north side of the Gulf of Patras and was the first place I’d seen completely devoid of foreign tourism. The harbour is part of the Klisova Lagoon, the largest natural wetland in Greece, and entry from the sea was only achieved by motoring down a thin channel surrounded by treacherous shallows.

Small shacks sit on either side of the channel, and from afar they look as if they’re floating on the water. Passing them gives you the sense of being onboard a patrol boat in the Mekong Delta, with the occasional palm tree conspiring towards this illusion. Children use old, wooden piers to jump into the murky waters, and a trio of teenage girls in bikinis waved at us and posed suggestively before vanishing into the brine.

Walking through the dusty streets of Messolongi’s outskirts was like some bizarre shift into rural Australia. Gumtrees are common here, and the close ties between Greece and Australia have resulted in similar housing styles. People of all ages rode on bicycles or motorcycles, and at night crowds of locals bloomed out of the darkness.

In the morning, Simone ran down into the cabin to yell that a turtle was swimming around in the lagoon. We all climbed onto shore, and chased around, trying to catch a glimpse. However, the turtle was wily and would only peak out of the water every few minutes, using the submerged intervals to swim across to the opposite side of the harbour. This meant that we constantly ran back and forth, our cameras limp in our hands, catching nothing but ripples.

A local fisherman saw our plight and told us that there were two turtles who regularly visited the lagoon each morning. The reason for their continued patronage was the fisherman, who cleaned out his nets here, chucking tiny fish and crabs back into the water. Sure enough, the turtles were hovering around his boat, rising up like ancient mummies to groan oxygen before diving down to swallow a dead fish.
“Some mornings they’ll be so happy that they come up to the boat and we talk,” the fisherman said.

JUBA, SUDAN – 1980
That morning Anco and Paolo eavesdropped on radio chatter from Khartoum. A dignitary had died in the capital and a military aircraft was arriving in Juba that day to pick up his family. If Sudan Air wasn’t going to help them, maybe the army would – the two had certainly used military transport in the past.

Arriving just as the plane landed, Anco and Paolo boarded in order to speak to the captain. He was not around, but they struck up a conversation with the first mate.

“We are engineers, contractors working for the UN’s Food and Agricultural Organisation. He is very sick with malaria and we need to get to Khartoum to fly to Rome, please, can we fly with you?”

The first mate nodded and wrote their names down on a clipboard in Arabic.

“This will be fine. You can load your luggage, but you’ll have to wait before you can board.”

While Anco and Paolo waited, a small crowd gathered around the plane and each petitioner added their name to the clipboard.

When it finally came time for the plane to leave, the tarmac was hidden beneath a few hundred pairs of feet. The captain, cut from the same cloth as the customs official, stood at the door and barked out a list of names. Paolo’s fevered heart quivered when he realised that, despite having been first on the list, neither his nor Anco’s names had been called; the captain was reading from the bottom of the list.

“Enough!” the captain yelled, and moved to close the door.

“No!” Anco and Paolo screamed, “our bags are onboard, we were here first, you must let us on!”

“Enough!” was the harsh reply, and the captain slammed the door shut.

Like a sad puppy, the crowd slowly walked away from the plane, back towards the terminal. Paolo, who was lagging due to his weakened condition, turned around and saw the strangest sight. The plane door was open again. Now was his chance!

“Anco, quick!” Paolo called out, and ran up the stairs.

He had safely made it onto the plane, but Anco, who had been with the crowd ahead, was now running in a rushing wave of Sudanese commuters. The lot washed up the stairs, and Paolo clung to the doorframe, doing his best to push people away so that Anco could climb onboard.

Anco was only a few steps away from the door, when Paolo felt a tap on his shoulder. There, bristling with anger, was the captain. His fist hung in the air between him and Paolo for a fierce second, before it swung down and struck the Italian straight in his solar plexus.

Broken, Paolo fell backwards into the confused clutter of people and the door shut once again. There was nothing more to be done than watch as the plane, along with Anco and Paolo’s luggage, made its way back to Khartoum.

NAVAGIO, GREECE – 2008
“It’s funny, isn’t it – this is the most photographed place in Greece and we’re having trouble trying to recognise it.”

Dad sat in the cockpit of Felicite, musing as we passed the north-western shore of Zakynthos, one of the Ionian islands. In Antiquity, when the Olympian gods overthrew the Titans, these giants must have fallen here, their outstretched hands gouging mammoth furrows in the side of the island in an attempt to grab the land they were about to lose forever.

We were looking for Navagio, the famous Shipwreck Beach that has graced pamphlets and coffee table books all over the world. Here, sometime last century, a cargo vessel washed ashore, disembowelled and abandoned to rust. It could not have chosen a more picturesque grave, surrounded on all sides by steep, multi-coloured cliffs and turquoise waters.

After almost an hour of searching, we found our target, reclining like a Roman senator. Yet, there was concern on the deck.

“There are no tourists here,” Daniela said, “normally this place is filled with boats.”

It seemed that the ever-spreading murk of recession and credit crunch had struck even these crystal waters, though it hadn’t done a thing about cleaning the water – sparkling, transparent waters are beautiful, but they also reveal years of tourist abuse. Simone, Daniela and I swam to shore alongside cigarette butts and other, nondescript forms of jetsam.

The wreck itself was alluring, but not spectacular, and I was more interested in reading the scribbles of a thousand languages across its rotting hull. Mostly these were lovers strengthening their vows with graffiti.

We hauled anchor once everyone was back onboard, leaving Navagio and its ageing hype behind.

JUBA, SUDAN – 1980
In his effort to make a point about how much capitalists are willing to spend, the customs official had left Anco and Paolo to stew for a day, before returning their passports and granting a new visa. For a small fee, of course.

The time that this wasted, however, was far costlier, and Paolo now wondered if the only way he’d be able to return to Rome was in a coffin. It was a plausible danger; Anco and Paolo had earlier befriended a group of five British students when they’d first arrived. Two of them were now dead, swept into a grave by malaria.

All of this would never have happened if it weren’t for the simple fact that Captain Abdeen, FAO’s chartered pilot, hadn’t been busy on a mission in South Africa.

Friendly and accommodating, Abdeen treated his small plane as if he were giving lifts to his buddies. Quite often he’d let Paolo come up to the cockpit and plug in a Pink Floyd tape, or he’d swerve through the sky to give passengers a view of something interesting down below.

Thus, like a true deus ex machina, when Paolo was on the verge of a cooked demise, Abdeen and his plane flew down out of the heavens to whisk Anco and Paolo safely back to Khartoum. Along the way he made sure to switch course, just enough so that the two Italians caught a good view of the angry customs official shaking his fist at the fleeing capitalists from Juba’s tarmac. Someone plugged Dark Side of the Moon into the tape deck, and everyone cheered, reclining like true heroes as they flew off into the sunset.

Captain Abdeen would die when his plane crashed two years later.

Life at 45 Degrees

Dinner that night was farfalle pasta, mixed with tomatoes, fresh mozzarella and some herbs, served alongside crusty bread and a white wine from Frascati. Paolo, Simone and myself sat around the table, while a fourth place was unused – Dad had been impossible to rouse earlier.

Once we’d finished eating, I cleared the plates away, only to hear a yelp from Simone as the wine bottle launched itself across the table and into the wall.

At that precise moment the dinner table, along with us, the kitchen and pretty much everything else in our immediate presence, was tilting at a 45° angle.

Before now my experience with sailing has been limited to pleasant day trips, not week-long journeys across open, international waters. You could say that I was receiving a crash course in long-distance sailing, except that I’d not like your choice of the word “crash”.

Sailing is both a cruel and rewarding sport. Those who know what they’re doing will come across as masters, controlling wind and water with a nonchalant flick of the wrist. On the other hand, if you don’t know what you’re meant to be doing, you just appear drunk.

While Paolo and Dad skilfully trim the gib and winch sheets in high winds, Simone and I have extreme difficulty in our attempts to stand up from the table and pour a glass of water.

When the conditions are especially rough, I just lie in a cabin beside some bags and hope that I do a much better job as a piece of luggage. To date it has been my most successful role onboard.

However, the kitchen has become an arena where we test our sea legs against increasingly difficult culinary challenges. The overall champion is Simone, who reached a dizzying peak when she baked a loaf of bread while also forming a triangle with the kitchen bench and floor.

Beyond the cabin lie other challenges that bear a greater degree of danger than simply cracking an egg on your chest.

Our journey began in the port of Civitavecchia, just outside of Rome, and from there we used friendly winds to run the length of western Italy towards Sicily. Here we would need to pass between the Messina Strait, a narrow stretch of water that lies between Sicily and the toe of Italy.

Through the Strait lay the Ionian and its promise of three days with nothing but sea and sky. However, our earlier good luck was swept away by dark weather in the Tyrrhenian Sea, and the smack of angry waves threatened to turn Fèlicité into a piñata. The only sane choice was to pull into the Aeolian Islands and find shelter in the harbour of Lipari.

Lodged between active and extinct volcanoes, Lipari is the world’s largest source of pumice – a large proportion of which frosted the skies in a choking cloud as we sailed around its mines. Not being in the mood for having my lungs buffed, I took shelter below decks.

Once beyond the veil of shards, we drew up into Lipari’s crowded harbour. The congestion was made up of hobby sailors, wealthy cruisers and commercial boats of various sizes and finding safe anchorage was difficult. Our first anchor spot was challenged by a tanker delivering water to the island, so we had to move (or face the wrath of thousands of thirsty Italians), but not before I’d had a chance to swim in a healthy slick of diesel.

We remained at anchor for the next day, waiting for the weather to politely adjust itself on both sides of the Messina Strait. Also, we needed to wait for the slim window when the current worked in our favour: if we did not enter the Strait at around midnight, our sails would not have the strength to pull us through.

But first, so as to simulate our own delay before reaching the Strait, I feel the need to change the subject.

It is easy to understand why the ocean plays such a prominent role in human culture. There is a liquid presence beneath my feet that seeps up to take over my every waking moment. The ocean is always reminding us of its dominance by juggling Fèlicité around, like a cat with string. Thus a vessel, which while moored may appear impressive, is reduced to a bundle of twigs held together by fibreglass. As far as the ocean is concerned we and the boat are always just sinking very slowly.

When alone on watch during the day, I gaze out into the waves and see them transform into rolling lengths of blue and white yarn, wrapping and warping amongst one another for as far as the horizon allows. Leviathan clouds made their own passage across the sky, moving in such a way that I can almost hear their own form of whale chorus, while the water below remains empty. Rarely, the plump wash and slap of the ocean is broken by the sudden appearance of life – most of the time a ray or jellyfish – as if the sea itself is winking at us.

Earlier on the day we were forced to pull into Lipari, Dad and I spotted some dolphins leaping out of the water. Under Dad’s instructions I crawled up to Fèlicité’s bow and hung over the edge, camera ready. As predicted, one dolphin took a liking to our boat, and swam right up to play at the bow beside me. It corkscrewed agilely through the froth, turning to look at me, and at several points leapt out of the water to form a muscular horseshoe before it shuttled back into the deep.

Nights at sea are altogether different, with the lack of sun making me feel even smaller in the expanse of a black and silver dreamscape. Without trees or buildings to defeat it, the moon dominates a section of the sky, and its gunmetal glow gives the impression that we are floating in an immense, walled tank. Yet, when the stars come out they defy the moon, and the dazzling swirl I experience when looking up at them resets the unbound nature of the sea.

As you can imagine, the nocturnal sea holds its share of tortured souls. In the waters near Calabria, you can hear the cracking voice of a man who desperately seeks another by the name of “Maaaaaaaaaario”. His frequent pleas have become pop-culture in these parts, and his antics extend to playing Arabic music and whistling over the airwaves. There is also another, creepier voice: a falsetto that offers illicit pleasures to anyone who is willing to “remember the monkey”.

And so, on the borders of midnight, we arrived at the western mouth of the Messina Strait.

The Strait is a busy boulevard, a lifeline pumping people and industry between Sicily and the mainland. Its narrow entrance is flanked on either side by whirlpools, including the famous Scylla and Charybdis. According to Greek legends, these two monsters sat on either side of the Strait, devouring ships that came to close; it was often the case that avoiding one monster led a ship straight into the maws of the other. Maybe it is for this reason that sailing through the Strait is not recommended.

Whoops.

The best way to describe entering the Strait at night is to imagine a computer game. Stretched across the dark is a strip of casino-grade lighting: white, gold, orange, green and red, all twinkling and blurring in the salt-spray. Though the strip appears unbroken, this is only an optical illusion, and the narrow opening into the Strait slowly reveals itself as a blankness pushing out through a curtain of light. This is your target, but there are still challenges to overcome.

Whilst avoiding the deadly whirlpools, your vessel needs to stay clear of ships; ferries and tankers regularly zip across these waters, and they have no concern for a silly little boat that may get in their way. Unfortunately, at night the only way you can determine a ship is by three tiny lights, which may shine out sharply in empty oceans, but are completely swallowed up by the visual cacophony of a city.

We did have one helpful tool at our disposal though, a computer screen that showed the location of ships, as well as their trajectories. Thus, entering the strait required a team effort of reading the screen, and then determining which of the million lights belonged to the tanker. Depending on their angle of movement, a ship may appear to be still until, too late, it detaches from the crowd and slides like a ghost into your path.

Fèlicité glided between the two towers that mark the entrance of the Strait, and into liquid steel waters. Immediately, cannon ports fired silent ships at us from either side and their dark shadows loomed to intercept us. Simone held the computer tablet tight and called out their location whenever her eyes decoded their camouflaged presence. We pushed on, deeper into the channel, but our passage was not as quick as we’d hoped; for some reason the tidal flow was not in our favour, despite our correct timing.

We had no choice but to continue forward, crawling through the sluggish waters. More and more lights crowded our sides. One sneaky ferry slipped clear through our defences, and Paolo quickly pulled Fèlicité around to let the fiend pass across our bow.

And then, as soon as it’d begun, the ordeal was over. The Strait widened on either side, as if it was some monster drawing back to rest, and the naval traffic dribbled to a close.

We were through and out into the Ionian Sea.

It would be two more days before we saw land again.

Tent Shun in Ireland

It was inevitable that I'd see something burn before the weekend was over.

But first -- a quick history lesson (and a flawed one at that, because I don't have much time to write).

July 12th is an important date in Northern Ireland (as well as some places in the Republic of Ireland, but this is quite rare) and, at least on paper, appears to be a counter-balance for the green, Guiness fury of March 17th. Towns and cities sprout Union Jacks and the Ulster Flag overnight, while papers and radiowaves are jammed with concerns about public decency, sectarian tensions and whether certain marching routes should be opened up to men in bowler hats and orange sashes.

The reason for this is that July 12th - known as "Orange Day" - commemorates the defeat of James II (a Catholic king) by the Protestant king, William of Orange, at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. And it wasn't just poor James who was cracked on the noggin; this event is credited with establishing the United Kingdom as a Protestant dominion forever more. The organisation that oversees the July 12th celebrations each year, called the Orange Order, is a protestant fraternity named in honour of William's victory.

In short, July 12th is an instant divide between Catholic and Protestant, a hand-on-nose waving "nyah nyah" to those who prefer the colour green.

But that's just one part of it. In light of 20th century Irish political history (formation of the Free State, the Troubles, etc -- sorry, I'm not really here to teach you anything), July 12th has also become an occasion for the Orange Order and its sympathisers to demonstrate that Northern Ireland is still a part of the United Kingdom: completely separate from the Republic of Ireland to the south.

To the outside world, you'd think that Northern Ireland settled its differences with the Good Friday agreement back in 1998. For the most part, the world would be correct, but humans are a stubborn species and we tend to hold onto grudges and consider our differences as a reason for violence. Nowadays most people are talking about the recession and credit crunch, but there are still memories of the past scattered about, waiting like dry kindling for the spark of a divisive political demonstration.

I definitely recommend that you take a tour around Belfast's murals, as this is a visual demonstration of how politically saturated parts of the city still are. Both sides, Protestant and Catholic, have their painted shrines, depicting heroes and martyrs, and it really is breath-taking to see the entire walls of houses covered in symbols and faces. Some of these murals are frozen in time -- their historical and social importance is too great for them to be replaced -- while others are constantly being covered up with new messages.

A recent trend, in an effort to move Belfast away from sectarian violence, is to replace images of masked men holding guns with other cultural icons, such as characters from Celtic legend (though even they are politicised, such as Cúchulainn who I saw depicted as the defender of Protestant Ulster).

But, aside from the murals, you will also see the Peace Line that still stands between the hardcore Catholic and Protestant parts of the city. Unlike Berlin, this wall never came down and its gates are still locked at night, completely sealing off flashpoints where the two sides neighbour one another.

I was brought to one of these spots -- on the Protestant side -- to see the massive towers of wood and tyre being built for their transformation into a bonfire on July 11th, the night before the march of the Orangemen. Such constructs are dotted all over Northern Ireland, and are usually built in circular formations, as if they were forts. Some are also decorated with politically aggressive symbols, such as the Irish tricolour and effigies dressed up as gaelic sportsmen. They are, despite their violent connotations, impressive sights to behold.

All of this build-up was preparing me for what I thought would be a turbulent weekend in Belfast.

But it wasn't to be.

Instead of witnessing city roads melted by rubber firestorms, I was whisked away to Co. Kildare for Oxegen, a four-day music festival. Mary, one of my companions from the camino, happened to have a spare ticket and tentspace with my name on it.

Though I've been camping at festivals in the past, I've never seen anything to the degree of Oxegen. 80,000 people, mostly Irish, were crammed into fields without any concern for the trippy netting of guylines that formed around them. Madness was further guaranteed by the sight of campers trawling in slab after slab of cheap beer.

By the second day I felt like I was in a warzone, or a refugee camp: guard towers stood in vigil over a landscape of haphazard tents, organised around tribal craters of beer cans and ruined camp chairs. Like the growth of mould, it worsened over time and tents were destroyed by the drunken stumblings of thousands; each morning revealed forlorn souls picking through trash heaps to dig out clothing for the day ahead.

My own tent was ruined on the Friday night. Mary and I returned from having seen the Kings of Leon to find its crippled frame sticking out at odd angles, and a gaping hole ripped all the way through its once-water proof side. Luckily, we managed to patch this up by cannibalising a nearby tent, left derelict from the previous night by one of our rowdy neighbours. The tent remained like this, slung up like a war veteran, for the rest of the festival.

Sleep was something people spoke about in hushed whispers, occasionally with a nostalgic tear in their eye. Each day you'd drag yourself out of your tent and hope that the toilets had been pumped clean and restocked with toilet paper (they had, but it was hours ago, and the paper had already been stolen by someone who needed something to throw at the finale of their favourite band's set later that night). With the lack of showers, toothbrushes became the only vital cleaning device -- everything else was a luxury.

Once the morning ordeal was out of the way, you'd stumble into the festival, and it was here that every gripe instantly became redundant.

There are too many highlights to mention, but I'd definitely tip my hat at being able to see the Pogues in a tent filled with thousands of drunk Irish folk. Shane MacGowan commanded the crowd with his drunken drawl and, though no-one understood a word he mumbled, they cheered him on all the same.

For some, the festival was not about the music however, and I returned on the Saturday night to find a wasteland of trash where quite a lot of tents had stood earlier in the day. It turns out that my neighbours, who never slept and did nothing by drink and fight, had wiped out some other campers, who had consequently summoned the police to evict the louts. Though they managed to plead their case and stay on site, they didn't cause as much of a ruckus after that.

Which brings me to the inevitability of a bonfire for me this weekend.

The festival finished on Sunday night, and the majority of the camp decided that they couldn't sleep, instead dedicating themselves to finishing all of that beer (so they wouldn't have to carry it back to the car in the morning). As luck would have it, one of our party left for home early, so he volunteered his tent as a upgrade from our previous, semi-detached wonder. We were finally able to pretend to sleep without the tent touching our heads, though any actual sleep was laughed away by the constant, noisy threat of having a drunkard step on your face as they tripped on a nearby guyline.

By 6am I decided that I couldn't wait any longer, so decided to brave the morning chill to march to through the new bog that surrounded the toilets. A light drizzle had misted the campsite up, and I could still see revellers huddling together in pockets, sharing stories of the weekend that had been.

And that was when I saw that my old tent was on fire.

Burning nylon is a beautiful sight. The plastic continues to spark as it melts away, giving the impression of watching fireworks reflected in a rippling pool. Unfortunately, it also billows toxic smoke into the atmosphere, and hot nylon is a little too effective at removing layers of flesh if you let it get onto your skin.

Though most of our stuff had been moved into the new tent, Mary still had some bits and pieces lying around (fool that she was, trusting in the decency of humans), so she stamped the blaze out in her gumboots. For the most part, we'd caught the fire early enough, because some of her stuff was still salvagable.

Her toothbrush, alas, was not.

It turns out that this is an actual tradition at Oxegen, with many people prefering to set fire to their tents, rather than pack them up. In an effort to stop this, the festival organisers suggested that remaining tents be donated to charity, but given the number of security guards I saw running around with extinguishers, this gesture didn't quite get off the ground.

Seeing the Dead

Yes, a lot of people danced around Stonehenge to celebrate the summer solstice here in Europe, and yes, back in Australia there were probably naked bodies writhing by the light of a pagan pyre because the day was just too darn short. But, believe it or not, I think I experienced something weirder on June 21st.

After receiving directions from a man with a ponytail for a beard, I boarded a bus filled with people. No-one knew where we were headed, so I wondered if the majority of the passengers were actually just seeking shelter from the rain.

Oh yes, it was raining that night – quite heavily, actually, and you should remember this fact because it plays an important part later on.

Evidently, someone onboard knew where we were headed, because the bus pulled up a short while later in the most random of places: a desolate field of rubble and asphalt, punctuated by some ruined administration buildings and industrial lighting rigs.

A man in blue gumboots led us through this wasteland, the wet crunch of glass and rock underfoot, towards two rows of wooden benches. People continued to chat once we were seated, while others scanned the emptiness before us, trying to detect the slightest human presence.

Someone saw the man first and fell silent, then two others shut up, and soon more beyond that, until everyone stopped talking, as if a vacuum seal had progressively closed above us. The man, now centre of everyone’s attention, trudged mutely across the ruined ground, eventually stopping about fifty metres away from us. He sat down in a puddle.

Another man appeared, this time from the opposite end of the vacant lot, marched with purpose towards another point – this time almost 500 metres away – before collapsing to the ground. He did not move again.

With painful slowness, more figures arrived in the wasteland, and as if we weren’t there, carried out strange, menial tasks.

In complete silence.

Then they started killing each other.

An hour later, a naked woman – the last person that we could see – buried herself under rubble. And then it was over.

Now, paste atop that scenario an overzealous serving of rain and freezing wind, while remembering that we sat still and patiently throughout. Obviously, you can’t celebrate the longest day of the year in any other fashion.

What we’d just witnessed was a performance by a Dutch theatre group called Companie Dakar, and it was part of the Cork Midsummer Festival. For the record, it wasn’t enjoyable to watch, but it was of a good quality, by which I mean that the performers were committed, and that they were well-lit and the space added to the vibe perfectly. But, then again, people with university degrees can be very forgiving when it comes to the label “art”, so I’ll shut up now.

To completely transform the vibe, Andrea and I spent the next day in the warm, dry Spiegeltent, drinking beer from over-sized glasses while watching local artists perform. The first performer was a really dull, “soulful” singer/songwriter, but the next two acts definitely made up for it – especially Mr Ian Witty and the Exchange, who sang into telephones while playing violins and cellos (yes, I’m a sucker for gimmicks). I can’t remember the name of the other group, but their lead singer wore a cowboy hat (note my previous parentheses).

I actually had the chance to ask Ian, via a friend of his on a mobile, whether he was saying “prettiest dress” or “pretty-arse dress” in one of his songs. Ian’s a gentleman; it was the former.

Now, I’ve lost my Little Book of Segues, so I’m just going to detonate a hole in this stream of logic and say that Andrea and I drove a hired car between Cork and Galway. By which I mean, Andrea drove, because the car was a manual, and while I know my way around them, I seem to think that swearing and stalling (not in that particular order) are integral to the entire endeavour.

Anyway, our story takes up again just outside of Galway, in the beachside town of Salthill. The last time I was in Galway, I’d befriended Gabriella, a Brazilian-Italian girl who was moving to set up a new life here in Ireland. Since we’d parted ways, she’d found a house and now lived with her sister and parents. Andrea and I were happily put up for the weekend on a blow-up mattress that had been bought especially for the occasion – the entire family gathered around to witness its virgin inflation with the mood of guests at a christening.

Though Gabriella’s entire family were wonderful hosts, special mention must be given to her father, Salata.

If Belgian comic illustrators were allowed to create human life, Salata would be the golden child of their first generation. Short, pot-bellied, but with meaty arms that swung wildly as he talked, Salata commanded attention, whether he was standing or making a wooden stool look incredibly comfortable. He wore thick glasses that gave him cartoon eyes, and his moustache was more like an Amazonian bird that nested eternally upon his upper lip. Also, the way his head seemed to roll back into his body gave the overall impression of a man who was always relaxed.

And yet, he was never still.

Salata loved telling stories, and he couldn’t just tell stories with his mouth, he had to dance about, pointing at invisible actors and directing the rest of us in re-enactments. Often he’d point to me and say, “Now, you’re me, ok, and I’m the dentist”.

In fact, he loved telling stories so much that he refused to let his lack of English get in the way of a good yarn. This wasn’t too bad when Gabriella was in the house, as she could act as translator – though, sometimes she didn’t agree with her father, and would chastise him in Portuguese. He always responded to this in the same way: he’d turn to us, point at her and say, “No, no, no, she es stupido!”

When Gabriella wasn’t around, however, we all played a game of charades, trying to guess what the other person meant. Unfortunately Salata’s choice of story was such that simple ideas, like table and milk, weren’t enough – try working out “metaphysical” from random gestures and clues such as, “not here, but for here, yes?”

The reason for Salata’s need for complex language came from the topic of conversation. Before he’d moved to Italy, Salata had worked as a police officer in Rio de Janeiro, though he’d also made a foray into politics (it failed – “it’s stupid, people speak for you they love you, but only if you give them beer, and that’s why they do…I don’t have enough for that”). However, behind all of this was a 40-year involvement with the Brazilian spiritual practice of umbanda.

So, for the benefit of Andrea and me, Salata danced around his kitchen for hours, flinging his arms around, re-creating the world of Rio; a place inhabited by corrupt cops, drug dealers, demons and…

“I went to the dentist, yes, and I sat while he worked, but he speak for me (note: Salata would say this instead of “he said to me”) that I must wait one moment. He walk to the corner, and talk to a man, but the man was not there, no, but I could see him, and the dentist, he come back, and he speak for me, this may sound mad…but I stop him, because I saw and I know, and falle (Salata uses the Portuguese word for “I said”):

Yes, yes, I saw – now tell me what John Lennon told you!”

The Moor's Last Sigh

The chair across from me was occupied by a man in his early 40s; short-cropped dark hair and a very old-fashioned suit were all I can really remember about him. A muscular, white cat sat in his lap and, though it did not seem to mind being petted, it did not purr, nor did its large eyes suggest any awareness of the man's affection.

"Don't mind Mitzekatze," the man said, "he's been funny in the head ever since he fell off the roof."

But that's a story for later on.

Mr Irving, as I was advised to call him, had lived in Granada for the past year, occupying a studio space in the picturesque Nazirid Palace section of the Alhambra. An American diplomat, Irving took leave from business in Madrid to travel through Andalucia. Something about Granada had captured his imagination, so it was here that he'd settled and where we were currently chatting.

"There's a shadow hanging over this city," he said, gesturing towards the white-toothed hills of the Alybacin.

"1492 was a very big year for Spain, you see. While Columbus was busy discovering the New World (though let's not remind anyone here that he was Italian), the Catholic kings were equally successful in driving the Moors out of Spain once and for all. The last sultan to have made his home here, Boabdil, left Alhambra and Granada in disgrace, but it is said that he turned back - at the final point, just before his beloved red fort vanished beneath the horizon - and let out an awful sigh as he watched the Christian cross be erected atop his beloved palace."

That moment entered legend as 'the moor's last sigh'.

Mitzekatze leapt off Irving's lap as the latter arose and gestured that I follow him to the window. From its arabic arch I could see the irregular lattice of tiny streets, woven and criss-crossing amongst teahouses, shishah dens and market stalls. Locals passed through the thronging touts with practised ease, but camera-laden tourists found themsevlves bogged down and press-ganged by skillful charlatans.

Most talented of all were the Gypsy women, who waved sprigs of rosemary at passers-by and, if ever anyone responded, would press the herb deep into their victim's palm.

"Oh, you will have a handsome husband, he will be rich, very rich, and oh so many children shall you have," the women cooed to their prey, then, "now, you give me twenty euros".

Irving shook his head, smiling at the gullibility of his fellow citizens.

"They are seduced by the legends, by the mystique of the Orient," he said, returning to his seat (Mitzekatze was busy pooing in a nearby pot plant), "but there are other, more modern tales to be found in this part of the world."

I'd arrived in Granada two days earlier, where the sun actually felt like something that heated billions of humans from millions of miles away. Unlike Barcelona, this city is small, and I found its streets cosy and filled with dog faeces. Thankfully, Bianca had phoned her local friends ahead of my arrival, so I was woken up by a cheery text message informing me of plans for the evening.

My bed at that point was a ledge above a toilet in the overbooked hostel I'd arranged a day earlier. With a mattress barely wider than my body, and an ancient pair of rotten socks nestled in a crack near my head (karma, perhaps?), I was struggling to find the deep, mid-afternoon siesta that my body craved, which meant that the buzzing of my phone didn't so much wake me up as it gave me an excuse to open my eyes.

Emily, Bianca's friend, was taking me out to tapas, followed by something called a "botellon". The first part of the night was fairly straight forward: Granada is renowned for its tapas because, unlike the rest of Spain, every bar serves you the tapas free with your drink. A lot of places actually insist upon your loyalty by staggering the quality of the tapas, so that the more you drink, the better your food. Locals will start their nights out at the bars with the more generous portions, before ending at the nicer, but stingier joints later on.

With a nice dollop of food in our bellies, our group multiplied when we arrived at a nearby park to meet some more locals. I was introduced to a Spaniard by the name of Alberto who told me that I'd have to pay one euro if I wanted to drink. Not quite sure what was happening, I gave him the money, and our entire party made off into the old quarter of the city, climbing up cobbled mountains until we arrived at an old Moorish monument.

This is where I learnt that 'botellon' means 'drinking on the street'.

It was only one of Granada's odd rituals however, as part-way through our session, we were interrupted by the arrival of yet another strange local custom: the midnight tour group.

A horde of Spanish students climbed up the mountain, led by their guide, and stopped right in front of us. Without batting an eyelid, the tour guide gabbled away to his followers, telling them all about the important historical value of the steps we were sitting on. People nodded, took notes in their books and then continued walking down the street.

Twenty minutes later some local kids started chucking rocks at us, so we decided to leave.

Unfortunately it was not too much later that I found myself sitting in a cafe having breakfast. I had three missions for the day ahead: change hostels, discover some examples of good graffiti and explore the Alybacin.

Mission one was taken care of fairly quickly. I'd already booked into the Oasis, a very cosy establishment right in the heart of the old quarter, so I was soon showered and presentable. Mission two was sorted out over breakfast - the women behind the bar of the cafe looked like the kind of person who knew all about graffiti. She did, and with the help of my new companion, Ida, told me where I could find some amazing examples. Mission three was also achieved with the help of Ida, who'd befriended a local boy last night and, in a bid to woo her, he'd agreed to give her a tour of the historical areas in the city.

If you're interested in street art, Granada is definitely a city to mark on your itinerary. It is impossible not find amazing artwork on the walls of this city; every corner will reveal a new plaster canvas. But, a must-see is definitely a section somewhere in the barrio of Realjo, just to the south-east of the Alybacin. Here I found, and photographed profusely, houses and walls covered in what looked like brush-stroked portraits.

The artist is known only as 'el niño de las pinturas' - the kid of the paintings (and his website is here: http://www.elninodelaspinturas.com/). Ask anyone, they'll be able to tell you where it is.

Exhausted after a long day of walking and photographs, I bid Ida and Isaac (the local boy) farewell, leaving them behind in a shishah bar. I thought that it was time to have an early night, but the Oasis would prove to have other plans in mind.

Skipping through a tapas pub crawl and a live-music club where even the band's line-up was improvised, I found myself in an ex-bordello somewhere in the city, sharing a bottle of wine with Jess, a German-American 'army brat' and Natalia, an exchange student from Melbourne. This was also where I met Mitzekatze.

"I don't think he even had a name before I got here," Natalia said, "but he's totally crazy. The love of his life lives outside of the building, but there's this little window that she goes up to, and the two of them will sit there for hours, looking at eachother.

"Once, years ago, she was allowed in here, but for some reason was banished outside. That was when Mitzekatze first tried to commit suicide. He leapt from the top floor of this building - a three-storey drop, but somehow he survived. Hasn't been the same since."

As if on cue, Mitzekatze's focus snapped onto something in the shadows behind me and he bounded away into the darkness.

"I think he can see ghosts," Jess said, giggling between purple-stained teeth.

It was getting late, so late in fact that Natalia's features occasionally blurred into those of a middle-aged man in an outfit far too old for our modern times.

"Make sure you see the Alcazar when you're next in Seville," Mr Irving said as I stood to leave, "the building isn't anywhere near as gorgeous as the Alhambra, but the gardens will strike you down."

I would remember this recommendation, days later, while walking through the gardens of the Alcazar with Phil and Sean. The two boys were traveling around Europe and trying to survive on twenty euros a day. That included transport, which meant that a lot of the time they'd sleep on park benches and face 24 hours without food. Despite all this, the tales of the gardens' beauty had led them to pay the eight euro entry fee without a question.

"Thank you, I'll definitely check them out," I said.

With a simple, civil nod, Mr Irving reached out and shook my hand. Our farewells concluded, I closed my book - Tales from the Alhambra by Washington Irving - and turned to look out the plane window where Andalucia, the Sierra Nevada, and even Galicia's verdure had long vanished, replaced with the lush patchwork of French farms. Ireland, Andrea and weeks of rest now lay only an hour away.

It's no surprise then that my final farewell to Spain came in the form of a relaxed sigh.