And the goat came too

The going was not too bad. The staying was, as always, wonderful. The return was a nightmare.
The going
"Please can I send just one more email, and there is that fax still coming through, and by the way Mrs M Mouse needs to be rung back."
Everyone else was in the car, packed tightly between snorkels, flippers, sun cream, an arm load of books, and an unopened copy of the SOLICITORS JOURNAL (I was to get into trouble later for taking this with me. It was supposed to be a work free holiday).
"No you can't. You should have stopped work 2 hours ago, and if we don’t leave now we will miss the plane." Reluctantly I cut the umbilical cords one by one, squeezed myself into shorts which had, since last year become tight, if not tights, hurled a few items of clothing at a holdall, only just remembering to add my passport, raced down to the car and pointed it at Gatwick. We chose to leave on the day of celebration of the Queen mum’s centenary (not for any patriotic reason: it's just that she seems to be celebrating most days at the moment. And good luck to her. I would too if I reached her age). .We dodged the bombs and bomb scares from those who wanted her day to go with a bang: there was a security alert in the airport car parks. The place was swarming with men with guns, and tourists dragging their suitcases along hard shoulders and sodden verges. A few hours later we landed on the island of Kos, and by various means of Greek transport were conveyed to Telendos.
The staying
Just three days earlier, we had staggered into a Cromer travel agent and gasped, in the same sort of way as bank robbers demand money: "Give us a holiday, and make it cheap as we are legal aid lawyers". The pleasant young lady looked dubious at our last statement (how many years do we have to be poor before people believe us?), consulted her computer screen and after we had rejected Ibiza, Iceland and one or two exciting but dangerous Baltic states, the computer flashed up the island of Telendos.
The computer told her that it was very secluded and there were no cars on the island.
"Right, we'll book the holiday and buy the island too." She looked relieved. This was more like the behaviour to expect from fat cat lawyers.
We found out that it is an island about 3 miles long with a 2000 feet high volcanic mountain peak. It was once joined to its neighbour Kalymnos but in about 500 AD a huge earthquake caused it to split and become its own island.
We were delivered to the jetty and ushered to a small boat which had obviously served most of its years as a fishing boat. Now, in acknowledgement of the fact that it carries people, a few faded carpets had been tacked to the deck. We joined a small collection of compatriots and waited, bobbing up and down in the gentle swell.
There is something about Greece that I love. It is now a highly efficient country which seems to have many things we lack (a more relaxed pace of life, very low crime, decent weather, no spin doctors) and yet it has those eccentricities which are both endearing and frustrating. Greece has, the same law as we do about crash helmets and seat belts, yet nobody wears either unless he or she is a tourist from England.
Earlier in the day we had attempted to collect our baggage. The carousel was clearly labelled with our flight number, but the suitcases revolved and revolved, and not a one was picked up. At last we realised that the luggage was from a Manchester flight, the passengers from which were being held in passport control while we collected our possessions. We might have been waiting now, had not some brave tourist remonstrated with a sullen Greek official and persuaded him to let the Manchester passengers take their things and make room for ours..
And now, as we sat on the boat (which was due to leave at midday, and it was already quarter past), an old man with white bushy moustache and a weather beaten face with the texture of well used leather came down onto the jetty leading three goats. These animals obediently joined us on deck, nibbled lightly at the carpet and settled down for their trip.
Telendos was a respite and a sanctuary. It lived up to all the things the travel agent had claimed. The only vehicle was the three wheeled motorised wheelbarrow driven by Nickos Antonopolous our hotel proprietor. He collected our bags from the jetty but we had to walk - past the small cluster of restaurants, past a solitary sheep with tinkling bell, browsing among the remains of a long-ruined church, past scented pine trees and along the lapping shoreline of the deep blue Mediterranean (have I got you hooked yet, or does this sound like yet another travel guide?) up to our basic but very adequate rooms.
The rest was sleeping and sunburning and swimming and eating and reading and trying very hard not to think of work. The week slid by quickly and effortlessly; and all we then had to do was go home.
The return
The Greeks have scant regard for time. Here GMT stands for Greek Maybe Time, which is fine when you have nowhere to hurry to, the bazoukis are playing, and the wine is flowing free while slender cats wrap their tails insinuatingly round your legs. But when it is time for sleep, and you tour operators decree that you must set out 7 hours before your flight is due to leave – to cover a journey which would normally take little over an hour you feel jaded and drained by the time you are delivered back to Gatwick.
In fact you feel about ready to go back to work, because you will have the same grey features you left with a week earlier. Ah well, at least we fared better than the goats. Soon after our arrival one restaurant was offering a special dish: goats in souce .
This article first appeared in Solicitors Journal in August 2000