Kefalonia, Greece - A Little Bit Boring Actually...

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Kefalonia was nothing like its island neighbour of Zante (or Chavos as I liked to call it.) The latter was where the youth of Britain woke up at midday, then after enjoying a Full English with HP Sauce, they would clamber aboard the banana boats. Next, after attaining their much-sought after All-Over-Red-Body-Tan, they would spend the evening drinking copious amounts of Mythos before being either arrested or finding a cocktail bar to vomit in. Thankfully though, Kefalonia, the largest of the Ionian Islands, was a bit more cultured than all that.

To be honest, Angela and I never thought we’d do a package holiday again. Everything about them made us shudder, starting with the plane load of British holidaymakers, all eager and excited, armed with sun cream and sun hats. Then to the hell on earth that is known as Coach Drop, where people were deposited at the never-ending parade of hotels, while those still on board looked and judged, hoping that their hotel would be better and more exclusive than the one currently being dropped at. And then there were the reps, offering their welcoming words of wisdom about how hot it was and how important it was to drink plenty of fluids. “We’ve got a welcome speech tomorrow at half-past nine,” they would say, “where you’ll find out lots more about your resort.” No thanks. I’d rather do it all myself. Our package tour days were over.

Except they weren’t. Getting to Kefalonia in July meant we were forced into booking one. The only other option would have involved a hellish selection of flights via Athens costing an absolute fortune, which was a no go from the start. But as it happened we didn’t mind paying for a week of packaged Greek sun because we were doing it for a very good reason: Angela’s brother was getting married on the island and so we happily boarded the plane and arrived in Greece as darkness fell.

“I hope our hotel is nicer than that one,” I said as we pulled up outside a small establishment that seemed on the lower end of the accommodation spectrum. Angela told me to stop being such a travel snob, but I could tell that she was thinking the same thing. We waited while a few people traipsed down the aisle of the coach, knowing full well that every other passenger was watching them, judging them.
But it wasn’t all bad. From what we could gather, Kefalonia seemed to cater for the more mature holiday maker. There were certainly no groups of ruffians aboard our coach and the only teenagers in tow seemed to be well-behaved and with their parents. Peering outside, I couldn’t see any roaming gangs of shirtless ragamuffins armed with beer cans, and the bars and cafes looked fairly low key and cosy, even if they did seem to offer quiz nights and Frank Sinatra impersonators.

We were staying on the south of the island in a village called Skala, a resort geared up almost exclusively for British holidaymakers. The beach was long and shingly, and the sea was a gorgeous blue. The houses on the hills, together with some distinctly Mediterranean pine trees gave the place a truly scenic look, picture perfect in its quaintness. That said, there were still a few home comforts on hand for their homesick Brit. A large Union Jack flapped around on the beachfront, and in many of the cafes in the centre of town, it was a proud boast that they specialised in ‘Real British Sausages.’ Plenty of shops were peddling UK newspapers and virtually everyone we saw was English, which all disappointed me. I’d been hoping for a real slice of Greece in Kefalonia, not some manufactured resort that was basically middle England in the sun.

The bride looked beautiful and the groom looked handsome. It was the next day and twenty-three of us watched while they become man and wife. For thirty minutes the wedding party became the centre of attention, especially with it all happening outside a small chapel just behind the hotel. After being pelted with rice, the happy couple fed each other honey and walnuts and the service was complete. After the photos had been taken we all went for a scrumptious meal which included the tasty Kefalonia Pie.

The next morning everyone squeezed aboard a boat skippered by a man called Captain Vangelis. We were heading towards the neighbouring island of Ithaca, the island retreat of Rowan Atkinson and John Hurt, no less. The island was truly gorgeous, spoilt only by the sheer amounts of tourists arriving in hordes from the pleasure boats. But what could we say? We were doing exactly the same thing.
We all trooped off the boat and started spreading out along the winding alleys that made up the town. Some little shops were selling wine and olives, but most specialised in the standard tourist fare of ornaments, pottery and photo frames. The streets were largely free of locals, who had no doubt had retreated into the hills to escape the foreign invaders. And who could blame them?

“I am still looking for a husband, a millionaire,” said the woman behind the counter of one tourist shop. Angela and I, together with her parents had just been browsing and began chatting to her. “And even though I am thirty-five (she looked ten years younger) I am prepared to wait for the right man. You know why? On this island, for every ten weddings there are nine divorces.”

After the obligatory swim stop, which actually turned out to be very refreshing, we arrived back in Skala to sample some cocktails in the Captain’s Bar, a small but very busy establishment just up the road from our hotel. Apparently British actor Simon Pegg was a fan of the bar, sampling its delights on a recent holiday to the island. His face was immortalised in some handy photos on the wall. The staff there were very friendly and attentive and I could see why Mr Pegg had enjoyed himself sampling some of the delights on offer.

During World War II, the island had been occupied by the Italians. Over in mainland Europe though, when their bosses had surrendered to the Allies, the Germans got worried: the island was basically a huge munitions store and they didn’t want it all falling into the wrong hands. As the Italian soldiers were getting ready to be shipped back home, the Germans gave them an ultimatum which basically said: join us or fight. The Italians chose to fight but ended up losing. And then the massacre began.

Starting on 21st September 1943, the Germans accused the Italians of treason, and began to execute them in groups of four. Many men were simply machine gunned down where they stood. One army chaplain later wrote that soldiers were crying and singing as they hugged each other, most saying the names of their loved ones as they were gunned down. Others tried to dig their way into the ground to avoid the bullets but it was to no avail. At one point the Germans offered medical help to any Italian man who was wounded but who could crawl towards them. When the twenty or so critically wounded men came forward, they were all shot dead. In the end, in just one week, 9000 Italian soldiers were killed. The film, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, a movie shot on the island, was based around these horrible events.

“Question 22,” said the man in charge of the quiz. “In Greek mythology, who gave Icarus permission to fly towards the sun?” The bar was fairly full and we had split ourselves into two teams based on whether we were Northerners (us) or Southerners (the bride’s family and friends). It was all well natured of course, and indeed earlier that afternoon a whole troop of us had actually amassed on the quite gorgeous beach for a go on the inflatable armchairs. Brits abroad, I thought. But they were good fun and so was the quiz.

“His father,” said Angela is answer to the question. “I think his father gave him permission to fly to the sun. Write it down, mum.” Thirty minutes later after all the sheets had been marked and added, we found out two teams were tying in first place: Us and the Southerners. As we pondered this exciting new development Angela discovered that the space for the Icarus question had been left blank, which brought about a new exciting development between mother and daughter. The basic gist was that Angela’s mum thought the answer she’d been given by her daughter was a stupid one, and so hadn’t bothered to write it down. “But it was bloody right, mother!” argued Angela. “I can’t believe you didn’t write it down!”

We won on the tie break question and revelled in our prize of a bottle of wine. We had vanquished the Southerners and we let them know it. Thank god for British pub quizzes in Greece. It turned out to be one of the best nights we had.

A few days later we hired a car to see some of the island away from the tourist trap of Skala. We could have done this by an organised coach trip, of course, but not relishing the Coach Drop, we had jumped in our car, headed north along a picturesque winding road that threaded its way along the sea. First stop was Poros, a tiny village just ten minutes away from Skala. Just prior to arriving there, we’d passed a series of rocky outcrops that jutted out from the sea. Legend had it that they were thrown there by the local Cyclops to repel invaders.

After some breakfast in Poros, we were back on the road. Further up the coastline was the small town on Sami, the second largest port on Kefalonia, and the main film location for Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. Indeed, there was a restaurant and an ice cream shop named after the fictional Italian officer. The town was definitely pretty and had a long line of restaurants facing the sea front, as well as a large church in its centre. The only problem was the heat. It was relentless and soon made sweating wrecks of everyone.

Along a twisty mountain road we came across a herd of goats complete with bells and babies. They were cute to look at but we had to move on, driving upwards and then scarily downwards towards one of the prettiest beaches on the island, once voted the 4th best beach in Europe. Antisamos Beach was a horseshoe-shaped sliver of beauty located at the bottom of a steep pass that the producers of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin had liked too, filming a famous scene there, and partly because of this, the place was packed. We couldn’t even find a parking space and so gave up and turned around, negotiating hairpin bends as we climbed back up.

“Right,” I said. “We might as well go to that famous lake I’ve read about. It’s not far from here.” After paying the five euro entrance fee we all wandered down though a short tunnel towards the small, but quite spectacular lake.

The Melissani Lake, home of nymphs according to Greek legend, was a strange mixture of salt and sea water and was only discovered after the roof caved in following an earthquake. We all boarded a small rowing boat and the man in charge took us in a circle around the lake before veering off into a cave full of stalagmites and stalactites. We were basically in an open air cave, but with sunlight streaming in from above, the water looked beautiful. It was cool too, even though it was only 30m below ground level. In fact it was really refreshing. “There are eels in this water,” said the oarsman. “But the water is very cold. Please do not go for a swim.”

Afterwards we all agreed the Melissani Lake had been a real highlight of our time on Kefalonia. We headed southwest along a narrow road that took us through the rugged heart of the island. Here the dramatic countryside was made up of small vineyards or olive groves, together with masses of pine trees on the sides of the hills. It was truly rural and a world away from the tourist centre of Skala. This notion was reinforced when we passed through a small agricultural village where every road sign was written in Greek with no English translations to be seen. Old women wearing black dresses walked along and men toiled away like they had probably done so for the last hundred years.

Perched high up on a long rocky outcrop was the imposing St. George Fortress. Built by the Venetians in the 16th century, it used to be the capital of the island and was built to withstand the hordes of pirates that used to attack the island. In the earthquake of 1953, much of it was destroyed but even so, a small village still remained. Unfortunately, we had to get the hire car back into Skala and so did not have time to visit this great monument to the past. We drove down the hills on the other side of the castle, once more seeing the gorgeous blue of the Mediterranean Sea.

The next day Angela and I decided to visit some Roman ruins we had kept seeing sign posts for. We followed them until we came to the edge of Skala and arrived at a narrow path leading downhill. The remains of the 3rd century, six room villa were mainly made up of some nice mosaics and a few crumbling walls. They were in good condition but like everywhere in Kefalonia, the heat soon became unbearable and we retired to a cafe.

With our week in the sun almost over, we mused on what we’d thought of Kefalonia. “The wedding was really nice,” said Angela. “And I enjoyed the boat trip and the car journey. But the heat has been horrible. It’s made it impossible to do things during the day.” I nodded in agreement. With the sun permanently keeping our activities at bay, the holiday had been a boring one. Three days would’ve been long enough on the island, I thought. But at least it had cemented our holidaying goals once and for all. Never again would we do a week-long beach holiday in the sun.

Strengths:
-Very pretty
-Nice sea for a cool down or a spot of snorkelling
-Friendly people
-Very safe with absolutely no louts

Weaknesses:
-Skala is a little bit ‘Britishified’
-Expensive!
-Not much to do
-Heat and humidity of the summer

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