Catherine George - The Power of the Legendary Greek

T HE smudge on the horizon gradually transformed into an island which surged up, pine-clad, from the dazzling blue sea. As the charter boat grew nearer, Isobel could see tavernas with coloured awnings lining the waterfront, and houses with cinnamon roofs and icing-white walls, stacked like childrens building blocks on the slopes above. She scanned the houses as the boat nosed into the harbour, trying to locate the apartments shown in her brochure, but gave up, amused, when she saw that most of them had the blue doors and balconies she was looking for. She hoisted her backpack as the boat docked and picked up her bags with a sigh of relief. Shed arrived!

Isobels first priorities were lunch and directions to her holiday apartment on this picture-perfect island of Chyros. The taverna her brochure indicated for both was inviting and lively, its tables crammed inside and out with people eating, drinking and talking non-stop. She made a beeline for one of the last unoccupied tables under the awning outside, and tucked her bags close to her feet as she sat to study the menu. With a polite parakalo , she pointed out her choice to a waiter and was quickly provided with mineral water and bread, followed by a colourful Greek salad with feta cheese. She fell on the food as though she hadnt eaten for days; which wasnt far off the truth. She enjoyed the arrival part of holidays a whole lot more than the travelling.

You enjoyed the salata ? asked the waiter, eyeing her empty plate in approval.

Isobel smiled, delighted to hear English. Very much; it was delicious. She produced her brochure. Could you help me, please? I was told I could collect the keys to one of these apartments here.

He nodded, smiling. My father has keys. He owns the Kalypso. Wait a little and I take you there.

Isobel shook her head, embarrassed. Thats very kind of you, but I cant interrupt your work. I can take a taxi

He grinned. My father is Nikos, also owner of the taverna. He will be pleased if I take you. I am just home from the hospital.

She eyed the muscular young man in surprise. Youve been ill?

No. I work there. I am a doctor. But at home I help when we are busy. I am Alex Nicolaides. If you give me your name for my father, I take you to the Kalypso.

She told him she was Isobel James and, by the time shed downed more water and paid the bill, the helpful Alex was on hand again.

It is near enough to walk, he informed her and picked up her luggage, but Isobel hung on to the backpack.

Ill take this.

It has your valuables? he asked as they walked along the marina.

In a way. She pulled the peak of her cap down to meet her sunglasses. Some of my drawing materials.

You are artist, Miss James?

Isobel smiled. I try to be.

Her escort was right. It was not far to the Kalypso holiday lets, but in the scorching sunshine it was far enough for Isobel to feel very hot and travel-weary by the time they reached a group of six white cottages scattered on the hillside on the far side of the waterfront. Offset at different angles amongst the greenery, all of them had blue-painted balconies overlooking the boats bobbing on the brilliant waters below.

Her guide checked the number on Isobels key tag and eyed her doubtfully. Your house is last, high on hill. You will not be lonely?

She shook her head. Far from it. The peace and semi-isolation of the cottage was exactly what she needed.

The other houses had been left quite a distance behind by the time the young man led the way up a steep path quilted with soft, slippery pine needles. He put the bags down on a veranda furnished with reclining chairs and a table, and with a flourish unlocked the door of Isobels holiday home.

Welcome to Chyros, Miss James; enjoy your stay.

She turned from the view. Im sure I will. One last thingwhere exactly is the nearest beach?

Next to the harbour. But down here is one you will like better. He pointed to a path among the Aleppo pines behind the house. Smaller, very pretty, and not many people because the path is steep.

Sounds wonderful. Thank you so much for your help. Isobel gave him a warm smile as she said goodbye and went inside to inspect her new quarters, which consisted mainly of one big air-conditioned room with a white-tiled floor and yellow-painted walls. It was simply furnished with a sky-blue sofa and curtains, two white-covered beds and a wardrobe; and through an archway at the end a small kitchen and adjoining bathroom. Everything was so scrupulously clean and peaceful it felt like sanctuary to Isobel.

Her friend Joanna, her regular holiday companion in the past before her marriage, had disapproved of Isobels choice and had urged her to stay at a hotel on somewhere lively like glitzy Mykonos. But Isobel had opted for quiet, idyllic Chyros, where she could paint, or do nothing at all for the entire holiday, with no demands on her time. Or her emotions.

Isobel unpacked, took a quick shower and, cool in halter neck and shorts, went outside on the balcony. She sent a text to Joanna to report safe arrival and sat down with her guidebook, hair spread out on a towel over her shoulders to dry a little in the warm air before she set about taming it. A fan of Greek mythology from the time she could first read, she checked the location of the island of Serifos, where legend said Perseus and his mother Danae had been washed ashore in a chest set adrift on the sea, but decided the journey there could wait until shed recovered from this one.

Isobel sat back, content to do nothing at all for a while, but in the end balanced a pad on her knee as usual and began to sketch the boats in the harbour below. Absorbed, she went on working until the light began to fade and sat up, yawning, too tired to go back down to the taverna for supper. Instead, she would eat bread, cheese and tomatoes from the starter pack of supplies provided with the cottage, then, with her iPod and a book for company, she would go early to bed. Tomorrow, as Scarlett OHara said, was another day.

Isobel lingered on the veranda as lights came on in the boats far below, and in the houses climbing the slopes above them. Music and cooking smells came drifting up on the night air as she leaned back in her chair to watch the stars appearing like diamonds strung across the dark velvet sky. Contrary to Joannas worried forecast, she felt peaceful rather than lonely. For the first time in weeks she was free of the dark cloud she had been unable to shake off, no matter how hard she worked. And there had to be something really special in the air here, because she felt sleepy, even this early. It would be no hardship to go to bed.