Campus life all over again.

I remember the day that I told myself I wanted to study at St. Andrews University near Leuchars, Scotland.

That very same voice assured me that Ryerson University in Toronto would be the best place to get ahead.

Well, I went with Ryerson.

Now that we're here in St. Andrews I'm second guessing that voice. The weather is cold and ever so bone chilling, but we bundle up and walk up and down the streets hand in hand. We can avoid the piles of students our age speaking in a variety of British accents.

This place seems like not only a load of fun, but magnificently magical.

Strangely, I'm reminded of my youth here in this ancient city where golf was invented.

The weather is cooperating and the people we're meeting are making the trip for us. It seems everywhere we go the second we meet other Canadians there is an instant bond.

Our evening was contrasted with a few hours shivering as we explored the narrow cobble stone streets in this university town, to then head out for fajitas and margarita shots with two Canadian girls we met at the hostel. Frigid to hot. Way to mix it up when it's so damp and cold.

We're heading up to Aberdeen tomorrow to see what it's all about. I may have to find myself a lambs wool sweater on the way. Cold, oh so cold.

Money, money, money

Decided on the fly late last night, with a half a bottle of wine in my belly that we wanted to travel to Bristol the next day.

We were taken in for a night with Brandon's friend Johnny, a Canadian who has been calling South London his home for 2 years now.

The boys bought a case of beer and I shared a few bottles of rose with Johnny's girlfriend Rocio. Unfortunately, Rocio had work in the morning so she had to miss out on the living room kareoke session that lasted until 4 a.m.

Today my body is a bit sore from the over indulgence.

But Bristol is fantastic. The architecture has successfully combined modern buildings with the historical ones.

Plan on touring Bath tomorrow morning.

All of this goodness and I'm still allowing headlines from papers at home drag me down. 'The loonie drops more than 2 cents'.

At this early point in our journey I've already begun to let myself worry about money. Especially at this time where on the world stage our little old loonie is being beat up.

*Breathe, this isn't worth the worry*

Autumn Sundays

The damp, autumn weather of South London may have me chilled, but it seems to be warming my heart.

I love this season. I'm just so thankful that I arrived back in time from the Mediterranean to experience it for the first time in Britain.

The leaves that have fallen aren't the crunching kind, but they still give off that tired but contented glow. Walking through the little township of Horley I figured it was the best time to find a warm jacket.

Being strictly budgeted right now, I scoured several charity shops that line the town centers, brick lain square. I overheard the conversations of numerous white haired charity shop keepers who volunteer their time to keep the doors open. 'Ohhh hello love, how's Peter keeping?'

'Oh well ya'know he's still waiting for his new knee.'

After an afternoon of searching and eavesdropping I found it. It looks brand new. This grey, wool and nylon blend made for GAP by someone in India will be a good friend to me I'm sure. These next few weeks in Britain will certainly be chilly.

This morning was no exception. I was happy to bundle myself up for a walk to church.

My sister left during the dark hours of the early morning to catch her flight to Ireland. So I was feeling a bit restless. At that time I still had all day to wait for Brandon's arrival.

It's then that it occurred to me that it's Sunday and that it's been far too long since I sat in a pew at church.

Walking through the church yard with 200-year-old gravestones that were inching deeper into the earth with every passing year. These church sites are images straight out of a Jane Austen novel, that's where my imagination is taken to.

The church, St. Bartholomew stood in amongst the gravestones in a striking way. Its history was written into every inch of the building.

I pushed my way through the 10-foot double doors just as the bells of the bell tour began to ring. Looking up and to my right the bell choir were repeatedly tugging at the several ropes to create the chime.

I was embraced by the friendly smiles of strangers who before long felt more like good friends.

After a song filled and rather liberal hour long service I felt spiritually fulfilled and ready to carry on.

I strolled along the cemetery path with a bit more of a bounce to my step; feeling even more thankful for the friends, family and the love in my life.

****

Brandon should be here in any minute and I'm buzzing with excitement.

All the way out here.

All the way out here on the world wide web, I'm wishing a very special woman a very happy 22nd.

This fabulous woman has made such an impact on my life.

I'm not sure if this young woman really knows the mark she's left on my life. Every time I sit down to enjoy a new dish of any sort, whether in Canada or not, she's there. She's not there in the physical sense, but my dear friend is there in the figurative sense.

She's taught me how to appreciate flavours and to appreciate the conversation that can accompany these flavours.

Albeit a European flavour.

My dear birthday girl has had such an immense affect on my life over these last years of close friendship. It will take many more years to revel in all of the ways she's made an impact on my life.

I am just so thankful to have such a dear friend in my life.

Put simply:

I love you Gi-Gi.

Happy Birthday.

A sad goodbye to the Greek goodness.

It's with a bit of a heavy heart that I have to say goodbye to this country, which has offered up its sights, sounds and tastes over these last 3 weeks.

Not only am I saying goodbye to the beaming sunshine, fresh souvlaki, domaldes, ouzo and men calling after us with whistles and smooching noises, I'm parting travel company with my mom and soon to come my sister.

Mom is off to Munich to tour around Eastern Europe.

I'm ready for this next leg of my journey, but having my mom with us for this time has been such a comfort. For being the stubborn and independent woman that I am it's always a bit of sobering moment when I realize just how much I lean on her, for everything. That moment usually graces me right after she makes her departure.

So this second leg will see my sister and I travel back to England where Ceileigh will fly on to Ireland and I will wait for Brandon to arrive from Canada.

We are those people

We've found the hide-a-ways and we've also happened upon the tourist hotspots. I can't quite tell which I prefer more. I think I need both at different times.

Our encounter with Santorini was brief. Cruise ship sightseers swarmed the streets and walkways every morning. And then by 2 p.m. the more ambitious were winding their way down the thousands of steps, while the majority of tanned, but frail ol' gals and boys took the cable car back down to their waiting water taxi.

Fira is the main town on Santorini (or the Island of Thira) and it sits up atop the cliff. We stayed in a hotel that clung to the cliff side. I felt a bit caught up with the closeness, but we truly were nestled into our very own slot in the rock. I reminded myself to revel in that.

Each night, as we watched the sun set behind the volcano that sits across the water from Thira it was as if the town could finally exhale and breathe again. Another day of sightseers had been put to bed.

One of the most popular activities we'd witnessed here was the scooter and quad (atv)rentals. The three of us found the quad renters especially comical.

The majority of them were Brits, in Greece to enjoy the sun and have a laugh. With helmets on they looked like bobble heads. They sat, two to a seat, straddling their rented, afternoon 'steed' with huge grins dried to their faces.

The engines would make an awful noise as they bumbled their way along the streets and even in some cases highways. They never went very fast. From our seat on a bus or walking along the sidewalk you could tell who were the conscientious renters and who were the ignorant putzes. The thoughtful ones would drive along the side of the road pulling over when they could for the real traffic that quickly collected behind them.

Well today we were 'those' people.

Now on Mykonos with only one full day of sightseeing we wanted to get into the nooks and crannies of the island. My sister and I rented one quad and mom, well she took the bus.

We rented from an older man who wore a ball cap tipped forward and his blonde, cigarette stained locks came spilling out the bottom. His name was Carlos.

He set us up on our ride and urged us to be careful.

He was about to wave us off when I scrambled off the seat, "What about a helmet?"

"Oh you want helmet?" We followed him back into his dusty office and he unboxed a helmet for me. Obviously they aren't popular here.

He looked up at my sister and asked if she wanted one. She responded with a laugh, "No, no."

Carlos stood between us walking us back outside when he grabbed our waists and gave us a grandfather like squeeze. "I am a Greek between two Canadian flowers." He barely stood up past our shoulders. It was a good day for Carlos. A quad rented during the slow season to two Canadian lassies.

Before I could start the engine Carlos was at the side of our vehicle.

"Give me a kiss before you leave."

I quickly pecked the side of his stubbled cheek.

"You both are the flower sisters, the sweet sisters and the super sexy sisters."

Engine on!

With a rumble and a putt we put'er into gear and roared off down the rock wall lined roads.

We toodled around tight, winding roads, down one way streets in the wrong direction and down to a southern beach. We tried to be thoughtful on the road, but defensive driving skills are key. I could tell the locals just loved us (note sarcastic tone)!

After the sun had set we decided to keep 'er parked for the night. I took such a great delight in taking up a full parking spot at our hotel.

When it comes right down to it maybe there is a little bit of an asshole tourist in me after all.







Famous windmills in windy Mykonos



Pellicans - chilling on Mykonos



Mommy looking bonnie at the Black Beach on Santorini



Sunset off Santorini



Church in Perissa on Santorini



In Oia on Santorini



A cup of Nescafe - the best way to have coffee here : Nescafe, hot with milk and medium sugar



What a great way to see the island of Mykonos.

***
Off to Athens tomorrow on a 6 hour ferry.

Sandy feet and salty hair; dressed for a sunset

I relax backwards into a comfortably worn-in balcony chair that belongs to the small apartment we have for a week. I can't take credit for wearing it in. There has been a never ending cycle of sun seekers from the North that have stayed here before me, I'm sure.

How could you not. Our accomodation is simple, but beautifully Greek. White washed cement walls and a stained plank ceiling. We keep all of the windows open and the white flowing curtains blow in the breeze.

Everything flows here. Even the view from this balcony flows downward over the old traditional village, Koutouloufari and out to sea. You can sea the Isle of Dia out to the West. Out to the East is an endless vista of blue that sparkles at mid day.

Crete is a spectacular island. I'm pretty sure I've fallen in love.

Like on the Peloponese we spend our mornings wandering around the countryside in our tight rental car. And by early afternoon we find a beach with cobalt blue water lapping on the beach.

But I feel so much more relaxed and welcome here than up north.

Today we found Knossos and in typical style with signage, road mapping and directions in this country we gave up on everything and left it to our instinct and followed the odd tour bus to find the ancient palace.

I won't lie, I hated every moment of it. The reconstruction of the palaces felt forced and fake and the constant money grab that lay around every corner really got to me (including our parking spot).

So we left quickly and found ourselves, intuition leading us, on the road again.

We drove down winding highways minding the sharp corners to ensure that we were far right of the none existant line that was to divide traffic. We drove through countless olive groves with arid mountain ranges staring down at us from all points.

Way west and south we found ourselves at Matala. Yes, a tourist destination, but an enjoyable one.

Staring out to the cobalt blue bay, I melt. After the drive I'm ready to float about aimlessley in the ocean.

My sister and I barely arrive and we were already submerged, sadly we both suffer from the Canadian: no nudey syndrome, so both our bikini tops and bottoms were firmly fastened. Directly above us on the cliff overlooking the bay is a fantastic sight. We stare up to the deep caved entrances that were dug out by the Romans, tombs for their dead, thousands of years ago. They decorate the cliff side.

I just float. There is so much history here, but all that lays before me here are families holidaying, enjoying themselves in the Cretan sunshine. Some wearing tops, some not.

Tonight I've come home to rest in the worn-in chair on our balcony. A glass of wine in hand, I lean backwards and rest my feet on the low wall to take in the orange toned sunset. I lean over to brush the sand from my feet, a token, a reminder of our day in the sun.

Shaded by an olive tree

It's not as hot as I thought it would be, but the sun reflecting off the Sea of Korinth is intense. It's good to take a break from sunning my lily white, Northern Canadian shoulders.

Our self directed touring brought us to a small sea side town, Diakofto.

Everything was picturesque. The sun lit up the most intimate corners of cafes that were shaded by the twisted branches of leafy trees.

We stretched out on a pebbled beach with not a soul in site. The wind had picked up a bit, but it just made the strength of the sun a bit more bareable. I can't imagine how hot it gets mid-summer. I think I'd wilt.

Ceileigh immediatly threw herself into the cobalt blue wake. I stupidly had forgotten my bathing suit. After ensuring that we truly were alone, I stripped off what I didn't want to get wet and threw myself into the water.

We let the waves push us back on to the beach and we sat and took in the intensity of the mountain range across the water. The range of the Southern Coast of mainland Greece definitely gives the Canadian Rockies a run for its money.

As always my stomach began to sing. It was lunch time. So we made our way through the village in search of a place to eat. Local highschool students were playing volleyball on their outdoor paved court. We finally came to a taverna with deep windows and retan furniture and in indoor/outdoor fireplace.

We sat back and greeted the waiter. I expected him to pass us menus.

"Come and see," he said.

We followed him into his kitchen in the back. There we greeted his mother, the cook, who had to be in her early 80's. She wore a midlength black skirt and a white blouse and apron. Her salt and pepper hair tightly pulled back into a bun. She smiled at our limited Greek phrases and pointed to the industrial sized pots that were waiting on the cooling stove, covered up.

Her son lifted each lid and explained what each dish was in his clear, but broken English.

I chose the cabbage rolls in lemon sauce.

We had Greek Salad and our chosen meals from the big pots. I still can't get over how fresh the tomatoes are. Here each salad always arrives with a giant rectangular piece of feta that you have to break up yourself over the salad. So fresh. So tasty.

The cabbage rolls was the right choice, but a few hours after my body punished me and everyone else around.

After lunch we took a road up to a remote, mountain top village, which has turned into a skiing village for wealthy Athenians. But one side of the mountain is where the traditional village life still remains.

The roads were very narrow and weaved tightly between the cobblestone homes with wooden shutters. Some of the buildings have toppled and remain in a ruined heap.

There was a sombre tone to our visit here in Kalavryta. We wanted to see it knowing its WWII history. In 1943 the Nazis attempted to occupy this tiny village, 40 kilometers above sea level. When the villagers resisted on Dec 8 the Nazis violently took the lives of all the men who lived in the village. They then moved all of the women and children into the school house that overlooked the valley. They were to be burned alive. But is was at the hand of one brave Austrian Nazi that all of the women were spared and were able to escape.

Such dramatic overtones for such a tiny place.

But life has marched on for Kalavryta, where locals love to talk to visitors like us, even when we clearly don't speak Greek.

As we carefully weaved our way downward to leave the village we made room for an elderly woman walking up hill, leaning on her wooden walking stick. She was closely followed by a sheep and a goat that looked to be twice her size. We waved and smiled not expecting a response. We received the opposite, she paused, waved and beamed a friendly, toothless smile.

We weaved our way down the switch backed road way to make our way back to Rion.

But I'll forever remember that Kalavrytan smile.