Page 18 of Old Girls Go Greek
‘I need to go,’ I said. ‘I haven’t travelled nearly as much as I would like to. But where should I go after this? Any advice?’
‘The Rockies are wonderful. Not just because they go on forever, but the thought of people finding a route through them, building a railway, it’s almost impossible to imagine. And the country is so young there are photographs of them doing it.’
I chewed on my croissant thoughtfully, trying to imagine myself seeing those things. Wondering how much it would cost; how would I deal with those sorts of adventures on my own? Spending time on my own. I envied Beryl and Effie for having each other to travel with.
For a moment I could almost see myself sitting in the observation deck of the Rocky Mountaineer train, sipping a cocktail as I passed snow-covered mountain ranges and dizzying gorges. Would it matter that I was a solo traveller? Probably not actually, because by then I would be newly confident; I would have lost a stone and discovered a new sense of style which, up to then, had evaded me. But wouldn’t it be more fun to share the experience with someone? Wasn’t that the whole point?
And yet Malcolm had been my companion for so many years and never seemed impressed by much; in fact, he had been able to suck the joy out of many things by the time we divorced. Meals were never as good as he had hoped, holidays never as enjoyable, celebrations never really satisfactory.
But then I had a blinding realisation. If it was just me on my own, I could do what I liked and none of that would matter. I could go where I wanted and no longer feel as though I was responsible for someone else’s experience. This was a new idea for me, and I sat considering it while around me, people chattered, drank coffee and ate pastries.
Beryl tapped me on the arm.
‘Come on, Meg, time to get going. Today’s bad decisions aren’t going to make themselves.’
I cleared away my things and followed the others. I felt quite invigorated already. I was almost prepared to get on the next flight to – just about anywhere, really.
* * *
Obedient as schoolchildren – well, 1960s schoolchildren – we were all ready and standing by the doorway at nine fifteen. The minibus was late and didn’t arrive until after nine thirty, by which time some of our group had wandered off to the loo or to change their shoes or fill up their water bottles, and Jillian was ticking and crossing things off on her clipboard in quite a frenzy.
The driver – Gregor – was a sturdy-looking type with a black Captain Pugwash beard and he reacted to Jillian’s twittering with a sigh and a dismissive wave of one hand.
‘Kakí kykloforiakí symfórisi,’ he said. ‘Bad traffic.’
‘A likely tale,’ Jillian muttered, herding us all onto the bus after rounding up Susan and June from the hall where they were happily showing each other pictures of their grandchildren.
Gregor fiddled with the air conditioning for a few minutes and then the bus eventually trundled off in a great clashing of gears just before ten o’clock.
I was sitting in the seat behind Will, and I admired his profile a few times when he turned his head to look out of the window. He really was both very attractive and somehow familiar. I ran through the possibilities again in my mind. Was he a reclusive actor who had found and lost fame in the last few years? Or maybe a disgraced cabinet minister who didn’t want his involvement with some terrible corruption to be remembered?
We headed through the town and up the hillside away from the sea, the scenery changing from the gardens and hard-won greenery to flinty-looking fields peppered with rocks, the occasional clump of cacti and some scraggy-looking goats.
Above us were high limestone crags and occasionally wire netting to stop boulders from falling onto the road. We went round hairpin bends and across deserted-looking tracks, passing petrol stations and bakeries in the middle of nowhere. There were clusters of little white box houses and a lot of tiny churches.
Sometimes we encountered another vehicle on roads that didn’t seem to me to be wide enough for us both to pass. Gregor appeared to cope perfectly well, clashing the gears and forging forwards like a knight preparing for the joust into the most unlikely spaces and muttering under his breath. Words that Beryl said were at best unflattering regarding the other driver’s parentage, appearance and intelligence.
Eventually, about forty minutes later, we pulled into a stony car park and Gregor opened the doors with a satisfied grunt.
Outside and away from the air conditioning, which had been unexpectedly aggressive, so much so that Susan had pulled on a cardigan halfway through the trip, the heat was already building and hit us like a wall as we clambered down.
The remains of the deserted monastery were just piles of stones in some places, and a couple of walls remaining in others. There was some welcome shade from a grove of trees which grew courageously in the rocky soil, but in front of us was the most breathtaking view over a little town below and the vast blue of the Mediterranean behind it. We all stood in silence for a few minutes, not quite able to believe what we were seeing.
We retrieved all our painting things and fold up chairs from the boot of the bus and Dennis strode out to pick a spot. Susan and June did the same and before too long, we were all settled in our preferred spaces, all of us mesmerised by the location. Was the sky ever that wonderful, intense shade of blue in Herefordshire? Maybe it was the way the light was reflected off the sea here, or possibly the clearness of the air.
A couple of seabirds wheeled above us before gliding effortlessly away.
I fussed about for a few minutes, wanting to find the spot to settle where I would discover previously unsuspected levels of talent in myself.
Will was obviously doing the same thing, and for a while we strolled around admiring the view of the ruins, the sea beneath us and the fabulous old olive trees which stood, bent and gnarled, casting shade over our group.
‘Feeling inspired?’ I asked at last.
We stood side by side looking out at the fishing boats far out to sea, and then he gave a sigh.
‘I know what I would like to achieve, but I’m not sure I know how,’ he said at last.
‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Paintings can sum up so much, can’t they? And I have found I remember far more about a place when I paint it than when I just take a photo on my phone. Don’t you?’
