She mused, "Is Greece simply like this or has it been designed to look this way?" An interesting question. When we travel are we drawn inexorably to places that adhere to our presumptions, do we seek out places that we have already half imagined? It's a somewhat deflating thought, but I suspect it is true, at least sometimes.
We have passed lots of seaside tavernas over the past week. Most look similar, you could produce a checklist - rustic wooden chairs painted bright blue with basket woven seats, wobbly square tables with a chequered cloth, shady terrace, preferably vine draped , annoying bouzouki music, big flat screen TV with sports channel on mute. Why do they look like this, is it truly traditional or a set of conventions that seeks to play to visitors' preconceived notions of what is authentically Greek, in other words are these places no more traditional than a British ploughman's lunch?
The more touristy the destination the more hapless visitors are assailed by exaggerated versions of the local culture. It happens everywhere, Edinburgh is more overtly kilted and Scorteesh than Glasgow. These days jolly Olde Englande is signified by the presence of Harry Potter shops. I was amazed by just how many there are - and how Anglo Saxon they were - a mere handful in Britain's Celtic lands.
In terms of a Greek equivalent 'imagined authenticity' I found myself comparing our last two campsites, Kalami near Plataria and here at Desimi Beach. On the face of it they are similar, both Greek family run sites, compact, with beach access and an on-site restaurant offering traditional dishes. In each German motorhomers predominate, mainly retired couples. However their vibe was quite different.
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At Kalami the owner constantly hurried about, showing arrivals to their pitches, fixing this and that. A platoon of young women hosed down the paths and cleaned the sanitary blocks. "Come to our restaurant!" the owner asserted as Gill booked us in, adding, "Naná is a great cook. The place was inviting, but relaxed.
Desimi Beach is not relaxed at all, quite the opposite, at times it's frenetic. It took three over-excited Greek men to direct us onto our pitch. Admittedly it was a tight squeeze and they were being helpful, but it did involve a drama of almost Aristophanian complexity to reverse a 7m motorhome between four red poles. The main protagonists were the 'boss' and his sidekick 'Mario' or 'Super Mario' as the boss dubbed him, the same joke reiterated for every new arrival. Gill nicknamed the boss 'Mourinho' which seemed apt given the guy's tendency to swagger about giving orders - he definitely regarded himself as a 'special one'.
There was more to the place than a double act, indeed you could observe an entire cast of old comedy stock characters if you watched long enough. Having been placed as short stay visitors in the site's least desirable pitch - next to the narrow entrance road, opposite the restaurant's pot-washing spot, two doors down from reception - so far as appreciating the place's sit-com potential was concerned we had front row seats.
Pride of place amongst the secondary characters has to go to Mrs Mourhino, a graceful, fortyish looking woman who gave vent to her frustrations by scolding her son, a scrawny child aged about ten. He seemed easily led into trouble by his play-mate, a mischievous French girl of a similar age who constantly goaded the boy into doing forbidden things, like dodging through the pitches playing tag or scrambling up the gnarly olive trees. Little Mourhino's older sister completed the trio, she acted as a sensible Susan character, but her attempts to encourage the two others to 'play nicely' were always fated to be undone by the feisty 'petite Mademoiselle'.
'The staff' provided a supporting cast. The capable bespectacled receptionist with a bucolic demeanour doubled up as the waitress in the restaurant. I never did work out if her willowy friend who wafted about during the day in a floral midi-skirt and tee was the same person who pot-washed opposite us with fearsome efficiency each evening. Now attired in skin-tight black lycra, she tackled mounds of dirty dishes with the focussed energy of a wannabe Olympian. Other minor characters included the guy on the outside charcoal grill who played to perfection his walk-on part as Greece's most inept and lackadaisical fish cook.
Some evenings one of the girls would help the venerable matriarch of Desimi Beach into a rickety chair outside reception. Dressed voluminously in black she surveyed her domain impassively, playing a similar role to Renée's fearsome mother-in-law in 'Allo! Allo!' Thinking about it there were distinct parallels between Café Renée and Desimi Beach, not least because the shenanigans in both were the product of a German invasion, happily in the latter's case as paying guests. Mostly they adhered to the the hearty avuncular stereotype, more Colonel Kurt von Strohm than Herr Otto Flick. In which case that would make me the linguistically challenged Officer Crabtree, "Wee ease thi roosuckling buns, the mootwohim ease fill uff ompty ween bootles..."
What does all this silliness tell you? We had too much time on our hands over the the three days we spent here. Effectively we were stuck. There was no bus to nearby Nydri and the local roads much too hazardous to cycle
Desimi bay is spectacularly beautiful, but the tracks around it too steep and gravelly to ramble around, at least they are for us these days.
The beach here is no more than a narrow pebble strip, so crowded with gently roasting bodies that you have to pick your way through them to walk along the shore.
As well as the campsites, a beach bar and a taverna there's a boat hire place. I was tempted to hire a sea kayak, but at €20 per hour it seemed a bit steep, especially as you could hire a small boat with an outboard for a whole day for €80.
So we stayed put, observed the goings-ons wryly, as I made progress with the Odyssey and Gill with her knitting. By day three we needed to do something, anything! Gill found a nearby place - Θεα Cafe Bar - which had achieved an impressive score of 4.9 on Google after 389 reviews. The place was close, 400m Google maps estimated, failing to advise that much of that was upwards.
If we understood Greek we may have been better prepared for the climb - Θεα means 'The View '.
Going back to where I started about faked authenticity, this place had done the opposite by striving towards a consciously 'un-Greek' vibe.
The white wrought iron furniture and rose themed table decoration looked part English tea room with a bit of Riviera Edwardian grandeur thrown in for good measure. No jangling bouzoukis here, the late morning soundtrack was Enaudi-lite on loop.
However the menu was definitely Greek - we shared an Orange pie with ice-cream. Gill had a well made espresso macchiato, I had a fruit smoothie. The vibe, the view and the food all were excellent. The lady running the place was delightful too, gentle and nice, chatting to Gill about the finer points of baking Greek syrop cakes.
Allegedly the place gets funkier towards the evening, one review claiming its cocktails were the best in Greece, another noting the cool jazz and funk played at sunset. I guess places in Mykonos et al are hip with a contemporary vibe. Around here tavernas predominate. They may be charming but they are hearty rather than hip. I'm not enamoured of the former and too old for the latter. Maybe what I really want is solitude, parked on a remote beach with a sunset view and a glass of chilled white. Not an exotic aspiration you would think when in Greece, but it seems unexpectedly difficult to realise at the moment. Time to move on, I think
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