“It’s a bit of a misnomer that really, isn’t it.” Said Gary. He and his “men” (if a gang of two qualifies for such an epithet) were sitting in the shade sipping their tea and dunking their biscuits. They were taking a break whilst tackling one of the myriad jobs (large and small) which needed completion on our new home in Rhodes during the first year or more after our arrival here. The tea and biscuits were courtesy of my wife and I. It was costing us a small fortune, considering the amount of both which they’d consume during a day’s “work.”

We would make them tea on a regular basis as Gary (quite rightly really) forbade his “men” from drinking beer whilst they worked. Slippery slope and all that malarkey I suppose. It all seems such a long time ago as I sit typing this just one month shy of our fourth anniversary of living in Rhodes. It’s July and hovering around the 38ºC (100ºF) mark outside as Yvonne-Maria and I hide in a shuttered-up house waiting for the cooler evening hours, when temperatures will drop to a cool 29-30! Each year at about this time we vow to return to Britain for maybe the whole of the month of August to escape the temperatures, the humidity and the hordes. Not that we have managed to do it as yet.

The humidity is only ever a problem for us during the hottest two summer months and then not all of the time. There are days when you can throw open the front curtains and stare out at a crisp blue horizon where the deeper turquoise of the sea contrasts sharply with the slightly paler azure of the sky. It’s on these days when you understand why so many who have visited Greece remark on the uniqueness of the light here. There is no scientific explanation for it, but it is a fact. The light on a Greek island during a summer’s day, when the humidity (the “ygrasi’a” to a Greek) is low, is simply stunning. Everything seems to compete to throw its own colour or hue at your eager eyes and you want to reach either for a camera or a paintbrush; or in my case, a cool beer.

Just as well I wasn’t working for Gary when he was building houses really.

Gary told us, not long after our initial arrival, that, to use his words here, “The climate here is wonderful. In fact there are only really two shitty months…” to which we rather naturally thought he was going to add “December and January,” or maybe “January and February,” when he continued, (to the accompaniment of the sight of our eyebrows raising in unison), “…July and August.” After now having spent almost four complete summers here we can understand why he made that statement. If you come to Greece for a vacation it’s not going to be a problem, as long - that is - as you have air-conditioning in your accommodation. You can spend all day either in a pool or in the sea. But if you live here, and even worse if you live and work here, those two months can be simply impossible to enjoy. It’s too hot to do anything strenuous as soon as the sun crests the Eastern horizon, which is around 6.00am, and it remains so until maybe a half an hour before sunset, which is around 8.30pm at this time of year. The need of Gary and his men for quite so many tea breaks we now completely understand; plus the reason why they’d be working outside our bedroom window well before we awoke and would be packing up for the day at around 2.00pm, when the hottest couple of hours are just coming upon us.

Fortunately, even though the world financial crisis has virtually robbed us of our entire means of income in the past year or so, we are managing to get by financially by finding odd bits of gardening work, decorating and even a bit of general maintenance for other Brits who’ve bought property over here. Plus this summer I have found work doing airport transfers for one of the British tour operators. This kind of involves me leaving home very late on a Wednesday evening and getting home around dawn. Then there’s the general gardening and property upkeep we do for John and Wendy, our landlords, who pay us for such work and consequently it means that we seldom have to pay them our full rent, which is a big help at present. So all in all, we aren’t in the trap that a lot of ex-pat British have succumbed to, that of working seven days a week for the summer season. We always said that if we got into such a situation we’d seriously contemplate going back to the UK and reverting to coming here for a couple of weeks for our holidays each year and being able to enjoy the place, much as we did for decades before making the move. I’ve written two books so far, prior to this one, and received rave reviews from readers for both; but can I find an agent or conventional publisher yet? What a major difference it may have made to our financial position if I had. Still, we press on and live in hope. If you know anyone by the way…

When the humidity is low it’s a lot easier coping with the temperatures during the summer months. Low humidity means your sweat (or, if you’re a lady, perspiration) immediately evaporates from your skin, thus not only cooling you, but leaving any clothing you may still be wearing quite dry. It’s a common fallacy that when the humidity is low you don’t sweat as much. Your body will sweat according to temperature and temperature alone. But when the humidity is high the sweat can’t evaporate as quickly and so remains on your skin, thus making you feel clammy and soaking your clothes.

Today is such a day. I can feel the liquid erupting from the pores under my armpits as I type and running in rivers down each side of my body. Too much information? Sorry, but it helps to talk about it. There’s nothing for it but to go outside and use our newly-constructed outdoor shower.

As I mentioned in “Moussaka to My Ears,” unlike many foreigners who buy homes, Greeks who build new houses here never install swimming pools. But they frequently do install a showerhead in the garden somewhere, so you can have a quick “dampen down and reduction of temperature” in order to cope with the heat of the day. We almost bought a free-standing garden showerhead a couple of summers ago, but decided we couldn’t afford it at the time. However, a couple of days ago I was using the hosepipe to water some plants that aren’t on our irrigation system and I had a brain wave. We have a wooden carport just a few feet from the side of the house and just one screw strategically inserted in a beam would be enough to retain the hosepipe gun at just the correct angle for drenching an overheated human. I excitedly sought out my trusty toolbox and set to work. Soon, after a few minor adjustments we had an outdoor shower. Since then Yvonne and I have been casting caution to the scorching breeze, throwing off our few clothes on a regular basis when at home and enjoying a good cooling off extremely frequently. We’re almost now looking for excuses to go outside and enjoy the sensation of cool water running all over us. Bliss!!

So, to return to Gary’s statement, which I referred to earlier, “It’s a bit of a misnomer that really.” This was in reference to the fact that we were now, come the first of November 2005, just a few months after having arrived here in our trusty Mitsubishi L300 van, the proud owners of a five-year old Suzuki Swift. We’d thus far been doing all our trips up and down the island in the van, which would frequently attract the attention of the Greek Police. A vehicle with British licence plates here is always going to get a good staring at from any roadside police officers. But a commercial vehicle, especially one that doesn’t look like it’s here being used by a few intrepid tourists who’d be mad enough to drive to Greece from the UK, well that’s sure as there were scalpel marks on Michael Jackson’s face going to get stopped.

The truth is there are far too many British registered vehicles roaming the roads of Rhodes. The regulations state that a vehicle from another European Union country may remain on Greek soil (well, asphalt - if it’s lucky) for up to six months before leaving again. Either that or it must be registered with Greek plates, which costs a small fortune for older vehicles. For example, it would have cost us three times what the van was worth to register it with Greek plates, so we had to either park it up and use it as a shed, or find someone who wanted to buy it. The fact that we managed to do the latter resulted in great rejoicing on our part! And the cost is only the easy part of it, imagine the bureaucracy involved in registering a British van here, when even a Greek can’t just go and buy a commercial vehicle without papers to show that he’s in the kind of business that necessitates the use of such a vehicle in the pursuit of his livelihood.

There are loads of ex-pat Brits here, though, who still run around in their British registered cars. The authorities had taken a relaxed attitude to it in times past, but, with the increase during the “noughties” of British people moving out here, they decided it was time to make a stand. Despite the difficulties it was going to create if we’d kept our van, I’m glad they did. After all, it’s great if you can flout the law and tootle around from home to beach to taverna to town with no road tax, no vehicle roadworthiness certificate and no insurance. Great - that is - until you have an accident. Plus, if you’re the legal driver and one of these British-plated cars hits you, you’re going to be well pleased aren’t you?

No, not really. Accidents are not all that rare here either. The reason for this is evident to anyone who uses the roads, however briefly. Frequently you’ll drive past a wreck that I reckon the Police have instructed to be left where it is for a while as a salutary warning to all the Michael Schumakers that zip around the Rhodean roads.

So now the Police, who are terminally bored much of the time anyway, can often be seen parked beside the road, usually near a junction, waiting to flag some poor harassed motorist down and do a spot check. When we still had the van we were stopped four times in three months. I’m very glad we had all our papers in order or I’d be an expert on Greek prison food by now. The usual routine was:

Travelling along the “Rodo-Lindos” highway, maybe passing the main junction with the road into Arhangelos. Just before the junction there’s the familiar Greek cop, standing by his little white Citroen Xzara with his whistle in his mouth (you seldom see one outdoors without it) and he’s pointing his finger at YOU. His other hand now gestures for you to pull over onto the shoulder. He approaches your window and asks to see your “diploma”, which to us Brits is our Driving Licence. That’s all in order, though he makes sure he’s giving you his sternest “don’t mess with me sonny” look over his ever-present shades while perusing it (even though he’s probably half my age!). He hands it back to you and then wants to see proof of insurance. In my case (phew!!) I had the “green card”, which is actually not a card at all, but a sheet of green paper. Never mind, it proves my insurance is valid for yet another couple of months. Looking rather disappointed, he kicks the tyres and asks what we’re doing on his island and where we’re going. Realising that he hasn’t caught a villain (in the shape of an ex-pat British vehicle that’s been here more than the permitted six months), he assures us he’s just doing a seatbelt check and waves us on our way.

That’s the thing here in Greece. You have to have proof of insurance about your person while driving at all times. You also have to have the vehicle’s registration document (if it’s Greek registered) with you. So I keep a photocopy of mine at home in case my little Swift is ever stolen. Fat chance of that really, but there’s a first time for everything.

While Gary and his men have been busy rearranging the terracotta tiles on our future roof for the umpteenth time (and literally begging to get malignant melanoma as they never use sun protection) to get the various shades to look right together, I’ve been squatting close by carefully using a scalpel to remove the vinyl decals advertising “G.A.M. Car Hire” from my newly acquired Suzuki Swift’s doors. I am at the rear tailgate just making “Friendly Service” read “endly Serv” when Yvonne presents Gary and the men with another cuppa. It’s now that Gary looks across at me, my tongue busily caressing my top lip as I achieve “endly S” without marking the paintwork, he dunks another rich tea and says, “It’s a bit of a misnomer that really, isn’t it.”

Now, this is still at the stage in our relationship when I don’t get his attempts at humour. So I bristle, but continue on, achieving “end” before he proceeds to further enlighten me as to what he’s getting at.

“I mean, ‘SWIFT’ is one word you wouldn’t use to describe one of those little blighters, would you.”

“Friendly Service” now consigned to the plastic bag full of vinyl shavings, I reach for my trusty bottle of car wax to attempt to remove the “G.A.M. Car Hire” and “Friendly Service” shaped shiny bits that remain on the doors and tailgate, when he asks, “You didn’t buy that from a car hire bloke did you?”

Duh?

Now I really bristle, as he’s obviously about to attempt to offer some advice, belatedly. “Only I could have told you never to buy a car from a car hire place. They’re all crooks and you’ll buy a ‘shed’ as sure as eggs is eggs.” I’m still deciding what to say in reply when he continues, “Best way to buy a used car here is: go to town, buy the local paper and pick one up through the small ads. You stand a better chance of getting something half-decent.”

Now, to be even-handed here, his advice about car hire vehicles is probably generally correct. But he is unaware of the fact that George (the “G” in G.A.M.”) knows John and Wendy, our friends and landlords, and has been renting vehicles to them for a couple of seasons already. George is the gentlest man you could ever meet and not at all like most fiery Greeks. Plus he had already kitted out – at his own expense - one of his small four-wheel-drive vehicles with a tow-bar so that John can take his jet-RIB down to the sea whenever he’s here. In short, George has a vested interest in looking after both John and Wendy and ourselves, as he’s well aware of the ongoing business he’ll be getting whenever John and Wendy, or any of our mutual friends, are over here for a visit. George would know that to sell us a “shed” would lose him a great deal of repeat business. John had asked him to sort out a modest car for Yvonne and I before we even arrived here and George had promised that, when he had a good one, that is one with a sound engine, he’d let us know. He’d even let us have it for a weekend before we decided whether to buy it so we could be sure it was what we wanted. I’d  “swiftly” taken it to my friend and motor mechanic Adonis, who’d given it the once-over before we’d gone back to George and shaken hands on it.

So all in all, I don’t need this type of advice from a well-meaning Gary. Plus, had this conversation been taking place about three years later, I’d be able to counter with a witty put-down that would see Gary grin from ear to ear, as he loves a good verbal tussle.  So I settle for a “We’ll see won’t we.” And polish away slightly more vigorously.

What’s odd really, is the fact that Gary is a petrol-head. He can work wonders with things mechanical. Yet if you’d seen the “sheds” he turns up for work in you’d be left wondering, nay, recalling the expression, “physician, heal thyself.”

The funny thing is, four years on, Gary’s been through a number of “sheds” or “lemons” and changed gearboxes, steering racks and various other mechanical stuff on them, even re-sprayed one or two (he’s very good at that, it must be said), and we’re still running round in our little Swift. Gary’s even done a service on it a couple of times for us and the last time he did so said to me as he dropped the keys into my hand, “It’s a good little runner that. Goes pretty well for a one litre. Engine’s sweet as a nut.”

I didn’t remind him. I just accepted the compliment gratefully!