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.
'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.
'It will help you,' she says.
The Liston is filling up with people, the flags are flying and even the dogs are dressed up.
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.
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.'
That's about it.
Love Maddie x