Drama in Broadchurch Land

In Dorset, the A35 road sweeps up over Askers to reveal the most beautiful view of all.

After looking to the left and the sweep of the Jurassic Coast, the corner of your right eye is drawn to Eggardon and the lush hinterland, with Lewesdon and Pilsdon - the twin peaks known to sailors as the Cow and Calf - Coney's Castle and Lambert's Castle acting like pulsating echoes in the distance.

And the electricity pylons march like giants through Narnia, giving perspective to a landscape so dear to me I almost cry.

There is a sense of drama in the air.

And then down to West Bay, to check on the boat, a pizza to share at Ellipse and then a look at some of the locations for the hit ITV series Broadchurch as a real-life SoCo gathers clues next door after a drugs bust.

 

Waiter, waiter, there's a body in my soup.

It's a strange experience, because not long ago this was my manor.

We wind our way back to Lush Places, that Brigadoon village in Jack and the Beanstalk land twixt Cow and Calf. The place I love.

It is overcast but the flowers are out on Bluebell Hill.

And what is this? More drama, right in the heart of the village. The sheep have escaped to a place where they may not safely graze. They have taken over the village green.

A large and skittish ewe is seen eyeing up the play fort. What fun. And then the farmer arrives to round them up.

Two circuits of the village later, with cars stopped and residents lending a hand, the sheep are back where they belong: the churchyard, where they are making a jolly good job of keeping the grass down.

The farmer waves at us through the tell-tale hole, the signs of sheepness right there on the wire. They can't wriggle out of this one. Their wool is there for all to see.

So the local accountant fashions a barrier out of a nearby road sign and places it in the hole until repairs are carried out. The sheep look at us, disgusted, before going back to their nibbling.

Ah, Lush Places. Such drama, such high drama. Never a dull moment.

'Do you like it out there, then?' the farmer says from behind the churchyard railings, as if he's talking about us standing in the road rather than our decision to jack it all in for a big fat Greek gap year.

We tell him that we do indeed like being in Corfu, although I admit I am homesick.

'Well,' he says. sagely. 'I've been around the world a bit. But I don't think you can beat it here.'

After dinner for thirteen at the Putters, surrounded by my friends, and then a party in the pub where Mamma Mia's husband is taught how to use a set of golf clubs, I'm inclined to agree with him.

I even manage a hug with Posh Totty. I have not seen her for a hundred years.

My brother and sisters, my parents, my children, step-children, grandchildren. We're a big family and I miss them all.

It is with heavy heart I board the early morning plane for Corfu, brought forward to avoid getting tangled up in a strike by Greek air traffic control.

And then we are back, back in the sunshine of Agios Magikades to a chorus of kalimera, welcoming smiles and an amaryllis on the balcony.

There is our neighbour, Spiros, with a new puppy no bigger than his thumb, waiter Spiros calling at our door to pick up the boots we have brought him from England, and Paleos Spiros on his way to the kafenion for fags and stopping off for an ouzo with us.

A whole host of villagers welcome us back with open arms and phone calls.

'Is everything all right? Have you had a good time?'

Yes, we have but it's good to be back. So many mixed emotions.

But that's another story.

That's about it.

Love Maddie x

Reasons to be cheerful: Maddie's wedding

We are back in the Shire, in England's Green and Pleasant Land, for a family wedding.

My namesake niece married her military bandsman in a lovely little church with box pews, reclining ruff-collared effigies next to the altar and a Methodist-style gallery where one of the groom's colleagues played a flawless Trumpet Voluntary. The rousing hymns - Lord of All Hopefulness, Dear Lord and Father of Mankind and Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer - and the recessional organ music of William Walton's Crown Imperial were British to the core and wonderful for it.

Earlier, as the relatives shuffled in after a quick stop at the famous Petersham Nurseries, they gazed around in wonder at the church's quirky interior. There were garlands of flowers and leaves above us, as the bride and groom came into church side by side, a Georgian tradition the priest said, and reminiscent of a scene from Jane Austen.

Number One Grand-Daughter followed, a small blonde vision in a wispy aquamarine dress, holding hands with the matron of honour. It was some feat as, at seven-years-old, she had no inclination to wear a dress at all and would have been much happier wearing the Darth Vader outfit she had been given as a thank you present.

So the bride reached a compromise and fashioned a Jedi light saber in white chrysanthemums sprayed light blue.

Later, a wedding guest recounted the Georgian tradition of not only the bride and groom entering the church together, and, not realising the significance of the 'bouquet', talked confidently about the little bridesmaid carrying a hollyhock pole just like in Pride and Prejudice.

The force, indeed, is strong with this one.

From the church we walked up across Richmond Park, looking back at the bridal party against a backdrop of the vast plain of Surrey and the Thames Valley, with lots of green trees, dotted with clusters of houses and a few tower blocks and then an aeroplane flying by.

For us country folk, more used to the landscapes of Dorset and Somerset, and some of us from oop north, it was a scene to behold, both ancient and modern. It would have been relished by my favourite aunt, the bride's grandmother, had she still be with us.

She would certainly have loved the bride's shoes.

We strolled by the Reasons to be Cheerful bench, installed in Poet's Corner in memory of that great pop music poet, Ian Dury, and then up to Pembroke Lodge, the former home of the Russell family. What a glorious spot. As the children played in some rare sunshine among the trees, this England seemed very real and special to a couple of temporary ex-patriots.

And then the reception with its simple floral arrangements in jam jars and milk bottles, and book cover place settings.

Perfick.

And then, in the evening, Darth Vader on the dance floor and small children break dancing and sliding across from one side to the other on their knees.

Oh, nothing beats a family wedding.

That's about it.

Love Maddie x

Corfu: what a way to spend Easter

Easter in Corfu is the most incredible thing.

In our eleven years of visiting this island, it is something we have been told about many times.

'You must come to Corfu at Easter,' our friend Jiannis told us. 'You will not believe it. The Greeks are famous for Easter but in Corfu, it is the best.'

And how right he was. Words cannot describe the spectacle. Photos do not do it justice. You really have to be here to understand. A strange mixture of ritual, devotion, celebration, tradition, noise, ceremony, moving music, lots of eating and lots of fireworks combine to create a heady experience on a massive scale, with some poignant moments of detail in between.

This is the place and time to come for an unforgettable long weekend break.

All week, Corfu's famous bands have been at the forefront, along with the island's mummified patron, Saint Spiridon, who is paraded through the streets on Easter Saturday on one of his four outings a year.

In the town, the celebrations are enormous. Little sign of austerity here.

 

Pots are hurled from the windows to great cheers from the crowds who, at the end of it all, scrabble around for a piece of broken shard for luck. For days afterwards, the red dust of shattered pottery is scattered through the town's streets and pavements.

And, at night, a candelit vigil waiting for the moment that Easter Sunday arrives, accompanied by a fanfare of crashing band music, choral voices and great rockets and firecrackers in the sky.

In the village, the drama unfolds at a more leisurely, intimate pace.

Services in the church, a sombre, candelit procession to the cemetery with a coffin covered in red and white carnations on Good Friday, while on Easter Monday the villagers make their way up to the cemetery church with an icon of the Virgin and Child, draped in red velvet and pinned with gold necklaces, bracelets and earrings.

Along the way, there are deep booms that crack through the village and beyond as mortars are let off by the local builder. And then there is our own Spiros, strong as an ox, carrying the twenty foot tall banner at the head of the parade.

And sandwiched in between, feasts up and down the island, lamb and goat roasted on the spit, hard boiled eggs dyed red (or, in our case, multi-coloured and decorated, thanks to our half-Polish neighbour from Lush Places, Mrs Champagne-Charlie), salad, wine and great big desserts.

Our Greek neighbours did us proud with a leisurely lunch fit for royalty, their own animals cooked on the barbecue, their own cheese and their own wine. It didn't matter that we had three friends to stay.

'You must bring them,' our host insisted. 'You are all most welcome.'

And he meant it.

As we sat overlooking the hills and valleys of Corfu with these lovely people, we thought to ourselves, this is something very special.

The Greeks are famous for their filoxenia, a generosity of spirit and kindness to strangers. We have encountered this here in spades in Agios Magikades. The warmth and hospitality of our new village friends has been overwhelming.

And the highlight for us, apart from the fireworks, candles, singing and all, was an Easter egg hunt we organised for our new Greek friends' two small children.

Their joy in finding the chocolate eggs hidden in their great-uncle's garden was matched by ours when they promptly hid them all again for us to find, before the brother and sister then alternated between hiding and finding. Their pleasure was in the game rather than the chocolate.

This Greek gap year has already been a surprising experience. The heartache of homesickness does not abate, for me at least, although it is more bearable as the warm weather soaks into my bones.

But is something we will not forget in a hurry, that's for sure.

That's about it.

Love Maddie x

PS Since publishing this piece, I have been taken to task for the use of the word 'mummification' in relation to the body of St Spiridon. No offence was intended. As the Metafysiko website makes clear, according to the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches, incorruptibility differs from mummification (the artificial technique of preserving the dead body that was used by some ancient civilizations, like the Egyptians). Please see the website for more information.

Crackpots: Easter in Corfu

Easter in Corfu. Moving and bonkers.

Here's the bonkers bit:

  

And then a mad scramble to pick up the broken pieces after the Easter Saturday pot smashing in Corfu Town is all over.

We took ours home and put them on the mantelpiece as an offering to Hestia, the goddess of the hearth and home before a siesta and the evening festivities to come.

That's about it.

Love Maddie x

Fireflies, flowers and Faure for May Day in Corfu

The sense of anticipation is mounting here in Corfu for Holy Week.

Church bells ring twice a day as the devout and those who do not want to risk eternal damnation make their preparations for Easter and pile into the church.

In the evening, the village plateia is alive with people as the congregation mingles with the card players and coffee drinkers, beer imbibers and children, now on school holidays and tearing around on bicycles. There are swallows and swallowtails, hooting owls, croaking frogs, waking cicadas and a host of magical fireflies flitting around the lanes and gardens.

The air is heavy with the scent of jasmine and mock orange blossom.

Yesterday was Labour Day, a May Day celebration which saw garlands on doors and small posies of wild flowers under car windscreen wipers. At first, I thought Turkey Spiros (so called because he breeds turkeys) had a female admirer when I noticed a bunch of marigolds on his bonnet. An hour later, Mr Grigg had his very own nosegay, made with scabious, flax and wild fennel.

And in the evening, a concert at the theatre in Corfu Town, courtesy of our lovely friends, Gorgeous George and The Graceful Mrs G.

'It's some choir or other,' I told my English neighbor, Mrs Bancroft, who has come over for Greek Easter with our other neighbours, The Champagne Charlies.

So we went, completely open-minded and none-the-wiser, to meet our Greek friends on the theatre steps.

Corfu is probably the most musical island in Greece, with more philharmonic bands than you could shake a drumstick at and more music students than notes on the most demanding song sheet you are ever likely to encounter. So whoever was playing would be good in our book.

And then we saw the poster and realised it was rather more than 'some choir or other'.

Greece's finest classical musicians began the programme with what many call the saddest music ever written, Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings. I was melting in the heat, which came in great waves in between bursts of cool from the air conditioning. I was also melting with the emotion of the music, a wonderful mixture of pathos and passion, a lament in the minor key.

'They played this at my cousin's funeral last week,' Champagne Charlie whispered, as a tear rolled discreetly down my cheek.

And the music played on while a young child of about six in the seat in front of me waved his arms in harmony with the conductor.

And then, after the interval, Faure's Requiem performed by the Corfu Municipal Choir.

Deep joy. You do not have to be religious to enjoy the spirituality of this music. Instruments are beautiful things, and the most beautiful of all is the human voice. With a large choir, the effect on an individual is enormous. It stirs the soul, it takes you to the very heart of the human condition.

But did our guests feel the same?

At the end, Mrs Bancroft turned to me and said: 'You know, I've sung that four times. I was miming along to it. I have had such a wonderful time'

'I hoped you enjoyed it,' said the Graceful Mrs G.

Lost for words.

That's about it.

Love Maddie x

A parade for Palm Sunday in Corfu

In church this morning, there are palm crosses hanging from the chandeliers in the church in Agios Magikades.

The smiling villager who looks like an old Matt Monro is in good, harmonic form as he chants at the front.

At the end of the service, the priest hands out palm crosses and posies, but we don't go up to collect one, having fallen out with him at New Year. (More of this another time. Easter is the time for forgiveness.) We are a little disappointed, as the palm fronds came from our own tree, but there is no good to be had in labouring the point, in case we are snubbed again. We are English and don't want to cause a scene.

So we exchange kindly smiles with the village congregation and then head for Corfu Town and the Palm Sunday parade.

We park on the road to the market, just as a coach ahead causes a traffic jam when it struggles to pass a car parked on a bend. As we head towards town, we can hear music. And drums.

We turn the corner and my cheekbones tingle and I become all emotional. I am a sucker for a parade, local tradition and a marching band.

Corfu is famous for its bands and we are treated to two walking right by us as we make our way to the old town. Flutes, drums, cymbals, saxophones, trumpets and xylophones.

A sousaphone player drops his music so I pick it up from the warm tarmac.

'Hey, Spiros,' the player behind him says, as he taps him on the shoulder and points to his mislaid sheets.

Of course he is called Spiros. It is the name of the island's patron saint, after all.

On the Liston, I ask a lady if I can take a photo of her palm crosses, as we did not pick up one of our own.

She insists on giving me one of them.

'It will help you,' she says.

The Liston is filling up with people, the flags are flying and even the dogs are dressed up.

 

And then old St Spyridon himself comes by, looking a bit cramped in his silver and gold casket and separated from his hand (in another casket) by several metres and hundreds of years. He is flanked by priests of all shapes and sizes, soldiers in shades carrying guns and an assortment of very important people behind.

There is a priest with dyed black hair, goatee and sunglasses, looking for all the world like Peter Sellers, jolly priests with well trimmed hair and beards and colourful robes, one who is filming the parade as he walks in it and another with a camera over his shoulder, a gift bag in his hand and a ready smile.

Bells throughout the old town clang as the procession walks by, accompanied by some jaunty music from the band while the holy men swing incense in front of the revered saint.

 

And then there is one of those moments frozen in time. We see our own village priest in the parade, a man in black, looking very serious and walking alone and holding the best palm 'cross' you ever did see, like the top of a bullwhip, almost a miniature palm tree which probably originated from our garden yet he does not know it. He glances my way. I am not sure if he sees me but, in any case, I defiantly hold up the palm cross I was given earlier.

I am hoping he will think of it as a sign: 'Be nice to this foreigner, this Medea, this barbarian. Yes, she is English and, even worse, a woman. But, all in all, she is all right.'

It is a busy day in Corfu Town on Palm Sunday. And it will be even busier next weekend for Greek Easter.

That's about it.

Love Maddie x