Up on Mount Pantocrator, the summit is shrouded in mist.
And still the geese honk, the dogs bark and an emasculated cockerel fails to reach the high notes. There are turkeys burbling, cats stalking through the long grass and the amplified voices of men selling potatoes and gypsies looking for scrap metal as they cruise through the village in their ramshackle vans.
The women siphon off the holy water blessed by the priest at Epiphany, when the church was decorated with arches of palm leaves studded with multi-coloured Christmas tree lights and a gaudy, flashing wheel of fortune in the centre.
Across the village square at the kafenion, the men are in playful mood as they gather like gunslingers in a Western saloon bar. They grab their cards from the counter, and a pen and paper and get in position as the National Geographic Channel shows the latest programme about predators and their prey.
Outside, the white lights twinkle in the trees, a stray dog howls along a street of squashed lemons and pomegranate and a wobbly scooter rider makes his way home after one glass of tsipouro too many.
That's about it.
Love Maddie x