At heart, mum was an adventurer. She enjoyed things foreign,
especially food. Dad was a strictly “no foreign muck” type when it came to
food, whilst mum, daringly would try to slip in some garlic into a recipe.
Her first foreign venture came in August 1974. Armed with
shopping bags, we set off for the French Port of Boulogne. We arrived by train in Folkestone and boarded
the ferry. Sitting inside, looking out to sea, mum felt very sea sick, and
complained about the choppy waves. I asked her to turn round and look in the
other direction. Behind her was the quay
where we had boarded. We had not yet cast off or left the harbour! What I
considered a smooth crossing was for mum a hellish nightmare. Still, it was
good practice for when she sailed across the North Sea to visit my sister in
Germany a few years later. Crockery flying everywhere and vomit swirling round
the feet, was really a hellish nightmare for her. The purpose of our trip to
Boulogne was to stock up on sugar. This
was the great Sugar Crisis of 1974, when panic buying had emptied the shops of
sugar. Dad with his sweet tooth, his need for sweet tea and cake, had
necessitated a foreign trip to stock up.
Having
visited Boulogne-sur-Mer myself the previous year, I knew some of the sites and
persuade mum that whilst there we should take in some of the culture and took
her to the Basilica Notre Dame of Boulogne-sur-Mer. This medieval church has
the longest crypt in France – it is over 100m long. There are dozens of little
rooms leading off, some of them go back to Roman times. The crypt was very, very dimly lit. We made our way round
holding onto the walls for safety. Mum
reached out to steady herself and touched a statue, only to find to her horror
that the statue was in fact one of the attendants. Her piercing screams echoed
through the underground passages. And then as a nervous reaction set in. Her screams were followed by hysterical laughter that filled this most holy
place. She was still laughing
uncontrollably when I managed to get her out into daylight.
In years to come other foreign trips were undertaken. Their
first foreign holiday together was to Calpe in Spain. Their first night was
disturbed by loud bangs and explosions. In a high state of anxiety, first thing
the next morning mum went to the travel rep demanding to be flown home
immediately away from this dangerous war zone / terrorist attack / gang
warfare, only to be told it was a firework display! Sometimes they ignored
warnings about war zones / terrorist attacks and gang warfare. Once they went
to Jerusalem (accompanied by my aunt who was a kleptomaniac and who with them for a shoplifting
spree).
In 1987 they flew to Lanzarote in the Canary Islands with
us. They also travelled further afield to visit my sister in Texas and
then in California.
In 2004 I
spent a memorial holiday with them in Cyprus. Here are extracts from my diary.
Day One
Arrived at Paphos “International Airport” - which was
basically a runway and a corner shop. I
stepped out of the plane and into the warm Cypriot sunshine to be met by mum and
dad. Dad drove the hire car back to their rented apartment whilst mum
gave Dad helpful instructions from the back seat. “Horace, move over, you’re too near the centre
of the road. Horace, use your brakes to slow down, not your gears. Horace…..”
The apartment was not at all what Mum and Dad had led me to
believe. Much to my relief! I had my own bedroom. The two-bedroomed apartment
was light, airy and spacious. You could hold a dance in the main room. All the
windows were floor to ceiling and consisted of sliding doors. Our ground floor
apartment faced the pool. There were orange trees outside our bedroom windows.
We went for a meal at a local restaurant. Every restaurant,
it seemed, employed people whose sole purpose was to intimidate passers-by and
make them come in. They did this in a very friendly way. As you walked past
they called out to you as if you were their long lost cousin. “Hello!” “How are you?” “Come in”
“Sit here”. Mum and dad were so
completely taken in by these warm greetings that they thought they were genuine
and felt guilty about eating anywhere else.
I persuaded mum to try a Greek Salad and Moussaka. Dad had
his usual steak and chips. Why he has steak I don’t know, because he doesn’t
have any teeth and finds it hard to chew even mashed potatoes! Perhaps it was
because it was the only “proper food” on the menu. His “proper food” turned out to be a tough as
old rope and he left it on his plate.
We concluded our meal with a fresh fruit salad drenched in
cinnamon flavoured syrup. (Yummy) Then another steak turned up for Dad! The
restaurant owner sat at a high table in the centre of his restaurant looking
for all the world like a biblical money changer in the Temple of Jerusalem.
(Only he had a parrot in a cage next to him that swore at passers-by.) He sat
there overseeing his staff and customers. Noticing that Dad’s steak had been
taken back to the kitchen uneaten, he ordered the chef to cook Dad another. At
the end of our meal Dad was unexpectedly presented with another steak! Not wanting
to offend the restaurant owner, Dad graciously accepted the new steak, put it
between two slices of bread and made me eat it. Little did I realise that this
was to be the pattern for most of our mealtimes. Most days I ate at least two
meals per mealtime.
Mum and I had finished off two carafes of white wine and we
ordered coffee. Almost invariably during our stay, when we asked for coffee, we
were given a choice of, “Nescafe or Greek?” The “Nescafe” was usually a
do-it-yourself affair. A sachet of coffee and a pot of hot water. The Greek
coffee wasn’t too bad – after you’d strained it through your teeth. The coffee
was followed by a complimentary glass of brandy. We all swayed back to the
apartment.
I was saying goodnight to mum when she noticed a mosquito on
the curtain. She reached for her weapons of mass destruction and sprayed it
with gas. The mosquito held on to life. Nothing for it but for Mum to take off
her shoe and beat its brains out. Still the mosquito doggedly held on to life. Was
this a super mosquito? No, it’s a stain on the curtain! Covered myself with
anti-mosquito sun tan cream and went to bed.
Day Two
Mum and dad don’t do showers, a strip wash at the wash basin
suffices. So the shower hadn’t been tested. I flicked the switch on and the
shower turned itself into a water cannon, the force of the water pinning me to
the far wall. Amidst my squeals and shouts, I struggled to fight my way through
the high powered jets of water to switch it off. Too late. I had flooded the entire
bathroom – rivers of water were flowjng under the door. Towels, bath mat, clean clothes – all soaking
wet. Once the noise of the water was switched off, I could hear Mum outside the
bathroom door enquiring if everything was all right. They had heard strange
sounds coming from the bathroom.
Went for breakfast at an establishment owned by someone who
claimed to be the great granddaughter of Charlie Chaplin. She had the thickest
east-end accent imaginable. She wouldn’t have been out of place running a pie
mash shop off the Old Kent Road. Mum and Dad had the Full English Breakfast. I
had the Greek Breakfast: grilled Greek cheese, olives, ham, tomatoes, cucumber
and pitta bread. This was accompanied by Greek coffee and a glass of water.
(Water often accompanies a cup of Greek Coffee. It is either to dilute the
coffee, because Greek coffee is so strong, or to rinse your mouth out because
the coffee grouts get stuck in your teeth – I’m not sure which.) On the roof,
Charlie Chaplin’s great granddaughter has the biggest collection of the biggest
satellite dishes I’ve ever seen. They’d make NASA green with envy. Not only does she get Sky, she must be able
to pick up images from the Hubble Space Telescope, or at least messages from
alien life forms in the Alpha Quadrant or the Old Kent Road.
Drove into Paphos, with mum giving driving lessons from the
back seat, “Horace, move over, you’re too near the centre
of the road. Horace, use your brakes to slow down, not your gears. Horace…..” We drove along the West Coast to Coral Bay,
past vineyards, banana plantations and along windy roads and hairpin bends. “Horace, move over, you’re too near the edge of
the road…” We then drove inland to Pegeia,
Kathikas and over the Akamas Peninsula. Very beautiful – for those who had the
courage to look! Which of course mum didn’t.
Her nerves shattered, mum had to stop for a brandy and a toilet break. I found a taverna and took Mum to the toilets situated outside
around the back. Unfortunately, when the toilet was flushed, it over flowed.
Mum came out with her feet and trousers looking as though she had waded through
6” of water.
We drove east along the coast road. Her nerves still
shattered, we had to stop again for a brandy and a toilet stop.
We then drove to Polis, the place where Mum and Dad had
originally planned to stay. It was still a building site. Mum and Dad’s villa
was the only one that had been completed. No made-up road, no street-lights and
two miles to the nearest shop. I agreed. Definitely not the place for two people
in their 80s to stay – especially with no mobile phone.
Dad, fortified by whisky, drove us to Paphos. “Horace, move over, you’re too near the centre
of the road. Horace, use your brakes to slow down, not your gears. Horace…..” I asked Mum how many accidents Dad had had in the 60 years he’d been driving.
None.
Stopped at a shop to buy exotic Greek pastries (baclava,
hulva, etc.). “Didn’t they have jam doughnuts?” asked
Dad disappointedly.
That evening we went out for a meal at an Indian Restaurant.
The Greek Cypriot owner was very friendly. He told us of his business ventures;
his buying and selling of property. The restaurant had previously been a
supermarket. He had completely redesigned it as a mock Maharaja’s Palace. There
are obviously no planning regulations in Cyprus and it was over the top naff.
The wooden ceiling echoed to the sounds of those walking on the floor above.
Dad asked him if he were holding clog-dancing lessons upstairs. For all his
entrepreneurial skills – he was seriously lacking in a sense of humour. Still the food was very good. I of course
ended up eating Dad’s steak and chips.
We went for an evening walk down to the harbour. Paphos
seems to have only 5 types of shops. There are an equal number of opticians,
jewellers, car hire, tavernas and gift shops. I soon learnt not to linger too
long outside any one shop. If an assistant saw you, they’d come out and drag
you in. One reason why mum had bought so much jewellery since she’d been in
Cyrus was that she didn’t like to say No.
Went back to the apartment. As I was saying goodnight to mum,
she noticed a mosquito on the curtain. She reached for her weapons of mass
destruction and sprayed it with gas. The mosquito held on to life. Nothing for
it but for mum to take her shoe off and beat its brains out. Still the mosquito
held on doggedly to life. Is this a super mosquito? No, it’s still the stain on
the curtain!
Day three
Tried to adjust the shower. The bad news: the force of the
water created a vacuum that sucked the shower curtain inward. The good news:
the flooding wasn’t nearly as bad today. Managed to keep the squeal level down
too. Cypriot plumbing has a lot to be desired. For instance, the sewage system
can’t cope with toilet paper. Signs tell you in three languages to put used
toilet paper in the plastic bag provided and not flush down the toilet. This is
bad news particularly if you have had an Indian meal the night before that
disagrees with you. Today, mum has diarrhoea.
Went out for breakfast. Sat in the warm, clear morning air
at a taverna overlooking the harbour. The first course to arrive was the toast
and marmalade and thick strong Greek coffee. No plates – as per usual European
custom. I’ve noticed this before when abroad. Foreigners seem to think that
toast and marmalade are a kind of hors d’oeuvre. We had two eggs, ham, small spicy sausages (I
had dad’s as per usual) and cold baked beans.
Mum wanted to have a day trip to Damascus. Went the
Travel Agents to book flights. Am increasingly concerned for Dad’s health – he
is losing control of his bowels. Relieved that fortunately we needed a visa
issued by the Syrian Embassy in London. Mum was most disappointed.
That evening we found a taverna not far from the apartment.
The proprietor, Theo, was very friendly. Mum and I had a Meza: Large mixed
salad (lettuce, olives, cucumber, tomatoes, feta cheese, etc.), potato and
onion salad in a parsley dressing, coleslaw, beetroot salad, pitta bread, kalamari
(squid), cod in batter, bream, red mullet, sardines, chunks of beef in a tomato
sauce, chicken livers and mushrooms, lamb, suckling pig, kebabs. (Then helped Dad out with his steak and
chips). All this was washed down with two carafes of white wine and followed by
crepe suzette. (Cooked at the table). Then a cup of tea (Dad), a Nescafe (Mum),
and Greek coffee and water (me). There then followed complimentary glasses of
port wine (Commonderera). The wine was delicious. Proprietor gave us another
glass.
On the way back to the apartment we noticed a shop that sold
wine and that they were offering free tastings. Unwilling to pass up such an
opportunity, mum wanted to go in. Bought some coffee liqueur and Commonderera.
That evening we sat on our patio by the pool, looking at the moonlight and
sipped our Commonderera.
Day Four
Went to buy Dad a British newspaper while Mum did the
housework before room service arrived. On
my return, I found that Mum on hands and knees cleaning the bathroom.
Returned to Theo’s tavern for breakfast. “They were so nice to us and generous, we can’t let them down and eat
elsewhere.” said mum. Her paranoia is one of the reasons I have to keep
eating any food that they leave. “What
would the chef think?” “I’d be very hurt if people left food that I had cooked
for them”. Mum then told stories about their guest-house in Tintagel and the times she’d been hurt by guests who didn’t eat all their food. Mum has a
desperate need to be loved and to be well thought off.
For breakfast we had Full English: orange juice, eggs, ham,
Cumberland sausage, baked beans (hot), toast, coffee. (Sausages too spicy had
to eat theirs too.)
Set off for Nicosia. Dad drove us to the Car Hire at Paphos
airport to include me as a registered driver of the car. “Horace, move over, you’re too near the centre of the road. Horace,
use your brakes to slow down, not your gears. Horace…..”
Got into the car and decided to set the ground rules before
setting off. “I know where the centre of the road is. I always use my brakes to
slow down. I have never had an accident. Is that OK mum?”
Arrived in Nicosia to discover that this was still a war
zone. We could see the Turkish and Greek lookout post / gun placements as well
as the United Nations soldiers. A corridor of abandoned and derelict buildings
separated the two communities, with walls covered with barbed wire. Because of where we were, this part of Nicosia
was very run down. Gangs of young men were hanging around and Mum freaked out.
Being terrified of being mugged, she clutched her handbag closely to her bosom.
I told her not to worry. If anything, they’d be after her rings and bracelets
and would simply cut her arms off. My mother doesn’t really have a sense of
humour.
Stressed out, mum was in need of a glass of brandy and a
pee. Popped into a small café. Checked
out the toilet. There seemed to be a lot of black mould on the walls. Minutes later mum came screaming out. The wall had started to
move. What we took for mould was in fact a colony of flying ants! But by now
mum was desperate to relieve herself. Sent her back in with instructions not to
expose too much flesh and keep her tracheotomy tube covered.
As we walked back to the car, I noticed the assortment of
unusually named establishments: The Roxy, The Havana, The Naked Pole Dancing
Club. Now I understood the friendly smiles of the ladies leaning out of their
downstairs windows. We had wandered inadvertently into the Red Light District.
Tucked away, I found a tobacconist, who also sold maps. I bought one of Nicosia
and another of Cyprus. Dad drove and I navigated. I negotiated
with the the back seat driver that if “Horace
were driving too near the middle of the road, not using his brakes properly,
etc.”, I would be responsible for telling him.
As we drove out of the city and as we drew near the Troodos
Mountains, the weather began to close in and we were surrounded by mist.
Fortunate really, because it made the sheer drop beside us less obvious.
Eventually mum twigged that we were in for some dangerous driving and she demanded
a stiff drink to steady her nerves. Stopped at the Mt. Olympus taverna which was
perched on the side of the mountain. Mum ordered a triple brandy.
Mum has a great fear of heights. When we were in Lanzarote
together we hired a car and went to explore a volcano. We followed the sign to
the carpark, oblivious to the fact that the car park was situated on the rim of
the volcano. We drove up a single
trackway with sheer drops down to the valley below. Mum became hysterical. No, I
could not turn round and go back down - the road was too narrow. Mum curled herself up into a tight ball and sat on the floor of the car
to avoid looking out the window. Managed to do a three point turn at the top
and drove back down, only now mum was on the precipice side. More screams!
However, back to Cyprus. Fortified by her triple brandy and
some retail therapy at the knick knack counter in the corner, we set off again.
Dad however demanded a cigarette for his nerves. Mum had appointed herself custodian of Dad’s cigarettes and rationed them out during the day. They were
in a constant state of warfare about his smoking. Unable to have a smoke, his nerves
were shattered so I took over the driving.
We continued over the Troodos Mountains with their
magnificent views. The triple brandy kicked in and Mum fell fast asleep. Just
as well. The made-up road we were driving on suddenly stopped. And I mean stopped. A line across the road and beyond it was a single-track bridle-way. At
this point the driving became very scary. Sheer drops. No passing places. Not
that that mattered, we seemed to be the only people mad or stupid enough to
take this road / track. The road was not wide enough to do a three-point turn –
so we couldn’t go back. We continued in the hope that we would hit
civilisation. We were bitterly disappointed. The bridle-way suddenly stopped!
We were left driving over rough ground. The jolting woke Mum up. Mum saw the
precariousness of our situation and was immediately in need of a brandy and the
toilet. The jolting up and down did not do her bladder retention any good. We
were in a wilderness. As far as the eye could see there was not a sign of human
habitation. I began to have serious doubts about Dad’s map-reading skills.
Eventually in the distance we saw a house, which turned out
to be a taverna. The proprietors were very glad to see us. Not surprising –
they couldn’t have got much passing trade. They explained that the Government
was in the middle of rebuilding the road. They had torn up the old road, but
had not yet got round to laying the new one. Mum had a triple brandy and a pee.
We continued over the stony ground. The going was very, very
slow – 5mph. The bumpy ground set Mum’s bladder off again and I was urged to
drive faster “or else”.
I have had several of these “Or else” moments with mum.
Normally when she is in a high state of anxiety, her bladder is about to burst,
and normally wants to burst at the most inappropriate time and place. In the
middle of the Scottish Highlands, not a house to be seen for miles, she forced
us to drive at breakneck speed to find a toilet. (In the middle of Scottish
Wilderness?). Another time when we were
abroad we went on a camel ride across the desert. Not a building or shrub in
sight. The swaying of the camel made mum feel sick and then the anxiety made
her wanted to pee. She kept shouting to me in desperation to tell the camel
herder to stop and let her pee. Unfortunately, he spoke no English. And there
was nowhere to pee anyway. Returning to
the camel station, we discovered toilets and been discreetly built underground
so as not to spoil the view.
Back to Cyprus. Eventually a road began to emerge out of the
rubble and we made it back to Paphos and a proper toilet.
That evening we went Gorgona, our friendly local taverna. I
persuaded Mum and Dad to try cocktails. Mum and I had pinacoladas and Dad had a
concoction of brandy, fruit juice and fruit. Very alcoholic. Dad didn’t
like his and I of course ended up drinking it.
Dad has some stock phrases when he won’t eat or drink anything such as. “Moussaka? Aubergines? That’s all my
mother cooked. I got fed up with them.” This from the man who couldn’t go
to school if it wasn’t his turn to wear the shoes; who had to wear his sister’s
knickers as underpants. Dad, his parents and 10 brothers and sisters all lived
together in a two-up two-down terrace house.
Mum and I had a Greek hors d’oeuvre: taramasalata (cod roe
in garlic), potato salad, beetroot salad, mixed Greek salad. This was followed
by deliciously tender suckling pig. We were pigged out! Could hardly manage the
chips that he kept piling onto my plate. Still, he did manage to eat his
omelette. We finished off a carafe of white wine and completed the meal with
the usual tea (Dad), Nescafe (Mum), Greek coffee and a glass of water (me).
Plus more Comonderera!
Day Five
At last I’ve cracked it. The shower worked perfectly.
A warm sunny day. Had a swim in the pool before going out
for breakfast. Mum feeling “bloated” so I suggested that instead of the full
English breakfast we go for a light continental option. They were not too pleased by the arrival of
plates of
Cheese, ham, tomatoes and olives. This was not a “proper” breakfast and mum
decided to take out her anger on the waiter when the bill arrived. The price of
the breakfast was £1 each. The price of the coffee was £1.20 each. Mum ranted and raved about the “Expensive”
coffee, pausing only to ask him where he’d got the coffee cups from, because
she’d like to buy some.
Being too embarrassed to stay around while Mum complained
about the price of coffee, Dad and I hid in a leatherware shop. Mum found us
and decided to do some retail therapy. She bought herself a see-through black
leather lace top. I said I liked it, but it was the sort of thing Cher would
wear. Mum promised to wear a vest under it. Still trying to gently dissuade her
from buying it, I hinted that she might be too old for it by saying it was the
sort of thing my daughters might wear.
Mum decided to leave it her will to my youngest daughter. Let’s hope she’ll wear a vest too.
After a siesta we walked to the church of Khrysopolitissa –
Ayia Kyriaki. The church was built C1500
AD over the ruins of a much larger Christian Basilica. Mum started complaining
about the CCTV spying on us. Explained it was the air-conditioning.
That evening, with taste buds watering with anticipation, we
went to Charlie’s Taverna. A disaster!
The waiter did not treat mother as a long lost family member. He did not call
her “mother”. She took the waiter’s business-like efficiency as rejection and
refused to leave him a tip.
Went for a walk along the front. Our way back was to take us
past Theo’s Taverna. This thought put Mum into a high state of anxiety. We
could not walk past Theo’s in case Theo saw us. What would he think of us? We
had (a) betrayed him by eating at Charlie’s and (b) not left a tip at
Charlie's. (This information had no doubt found its way to Theo by now).
Persuaded them that it was OK to walk past Theo’s.
Walked past Theo’s. Theo saw us. Mum’s worst nightmare! He
was as warm and as friendly as could be and invited us in for coffee and
Commanderera (several).
The more Commanderera mum drank, the more maudlin she became
and the more she recounted all the perceived slights she had received from
family and friends over the years.
Day Six
Mum is beginning to have withdrawal symptoms, she hadn’t
bought any jewellery for at least a week. So, we set off for some retail
therapy. Before I’d arrived she had bought an expensive pair of diamond
earrings. However, because the holes in her ears had grown larger over the
years, she couldn’t wear them. No matter, she wouldn’t take them back but she
would leave them to her granddaughters. Mum bought some new suitcases and threw
away the old ones.
Took mum and dad back to the apartment for a siesta. Mum and
dad fell fast asleep in their bedroom so I decided to go off and see the rest
of the old Roman City.
When I got back to the apartment. Mum was in a high state of
anxiety. Thinking that I was unhappy
staying with them, she thought I had run away!
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