URSABLOG: Remember, Remember

I don’t wish to make you jealous, but I am writing this from a beautiful Greek island where I am enjoying a brief holiday. I will not reveal the name of this island, mainly because I want to keep the island beautiful, but if you really must know I will respond to private messages of enquiry.

It’s not an easy island to get to: we had to fly from Athens to another island first, then get a taxi down to a small port, where a small ferry took a small number of us (nine passengers in total) across a fairly choppy sea as the sun was setting. We arrived in another small port, and having dumped our bags at where we are staying we went out to explore and get something to eat. The place is full of Brits, not the young, loutish type but the respectable senior variety. I wanted to get away from it all, and yet here I was, surrounded by surrogate aunts and uncles.

It was I suppose too much to expect that there is such a thing as an island which is so remote that no-one except the indigenous Greeks inhabit; those days are long gone, and islanders as much as anyone have a right to make a living. But I was oppressed with the fact that everywhere we went would be full of Brits, and I wouldn’t be able to talk freely to my girlfriend if other tables were listening in, or even worse, wanted to make friends. We ate in a traditional kafenion, and spoke Greek.

The next day however things got better. I hired a scooter, and we started to explore the island. One out of the port, things get better. The countryside is beautiful and empty. Mountains divide the island up into segments, and there is only one main road from north to south. There is one petrol station, and few tavernas (two, three) outside the main town. We have been taking the scooter to a remote spot, and then walking across and down mountains to beaches where we have on many occasions been the only visitors. Then a late lunch/early dinner in one of the tavernas as the sun goes down, to drive back in the dark to the port. Heaven.

You may ask why I object so much to my compatriots being here. Well it’s not that I object necessarily; they are good visitors, and respectful of the island and the people. They drink in the square after they have had dinner, and all finish their drinks, and leave, as if there was a bell or a signal, at 11:30, which is after all closing time in the UK. And certainly their reluctance to leave the charms of the port, which is charming, is good for us who want to explore, and more or less have the rest of the island to ourselves. Yesterday we walked on a well maintained path for a few kilometres to an abandoned village, melancholy yet homely, and then had a choice of three beaches with crystal clear warm waters. We met no-one.

My problem with my compatriots is Brexit. I do not want to be drawn into the inevitable discussions in this tumultuous week, especially as I do not live in the UK, and never watch British television or listen to British radio. As I don’t have the constant stream of media references, when I do express my views on the matter, like the role of Parliament, or the futility of negotiating with yourself, I feel as though I am missing something, because the conversation revolves around personalities, or conspiracy theories or other such stuff. I don’t get the context. I suppose I feel like I have been away a long time, and am still clinging to the things I respect about the UK, without actually knowing what they are like these days.

This feeling of disconnect faded into one of sadness when yesterday I received an unsolicited WhatsApp message, with a picture of Guy Fawkes saying “Anything I can do to help? I hear you need me back!” For those of you that don’t know, Guy Fawkes was arrested and executed in 1605 for a plot to blow up the houses of Parliament when King James I would be attending. The uncovering of the plot is still commemorated in the UK every 5th November with bonfires and fireworks. Many of you may have also seen the film V For Vendetta, a modern and mangled reworking of this theme, and the mask connected with it.

Why was I so upset about a seemingly innocent text? Well apart from the subliminal message that only violence can solve the problem, the perceived problem being that it is the UK Parliament that is blocking Brexit, it is the absolute lack of knowledge and fact that leads to people to think that Guy Fawkes was a hero rather than an agent of a foreign power hoping to overthrow the throne, what we would call a terrorist today. It is worth remembering that not long after the gunpowder plot, as it still called, England fell into a vicious civil war where the Parliamentarians tried and executed the successor to King James I, Charles I, and after it was all over the modern era of Parliamentary sovereignty was established. I am upset because that is not seen as fact, the basis of the British constitution, but an inconvenient story that political vandals of all colours and persuasions will ignore in order to get their way.

So, whilst the United Kingdom collectively carries on with the most spectacular case of political self-harm for generations, I have been listening in on the conversations of my compatriots at other tables in the port, and have not been encouraged that our fabled tolerance and sense of fair play, indeed common sense, will last much longer. On the surface the politeness and reasonableness remains, but just beneath lurks something very dangerous. I fear it will get worse before it gets better.

As I near the end of my holiday I am mentally preparing all the things I have to do for the next few months. Top of the list, something I have put off for some time, is acquiring Greek citizenship. I have been reluctant to go the whole way because I am British, and I am not Greek, nor can I ever be. But in these changing times, I think I should finally commit. After all, I live here, work here, have a business here, go on holiday here, so there’s no practical reason why I shouldn’t start the process. And beyond that there are the sentimental and emotional reasons for being here: my love of the place and people. But whilst I can view all this from a practical basis, I do think there are other currents flowing here, and I can’t quite work them out. This is perhaps why I was disappointed to find so many Brits here: they remind me where I come from.

We escaped again today, and after a kilometre or two on the scooter we parked and walked another kilometre or two down to the beach. It was not quite empty: three or four others shared it with us. The sun went down, and a half moon appeared above darkening seas and sparkling cliffs. A small fishing boat was working in the crystal-clear waters off the rocks we had dived off earlier. We had spent hours swimming, smoking, reading and snoozing without a cloud in the sky and a cooling breeze blowing offshore. The book I was reading was The Gathering Storm, the first volume of Winston Churchill’s war memoirs, and whilst those were obviously very different times, there are many echoes of the past reverberating today that made me unsettled.

As we were leaving, another of the tenants of the beach passed us and started a conversation, asking where we were from. As soon as he found out I was British, the man (Italian but living in London) asked me how I thought things would turn out. I replied I was sure he had a better idea than me, as I live in Athens and he lives in London. His reply?

“What a bunch of jerks.”

This is what the British are reduced to now. I only hope the damage is not lasting and business as usual returns as quickly as possible.

Simon Ward

www.ursashipbrokers.com