The homecoming

Having done 4 loads of laundry after arriving home in the late afternoon, I found among the last of the dirty clothes the jar of honey I bought high in the foothills of the White Mountains and carried down the hill in my rucksack. The girl I bought it from, the daughter of the owner, pointed to the hillside where they kept their beehives, and promised that she would wrap it carefully enough to preserve it for its journey back to Scotland. She was the image of the ladies in the fridge magnet in the bottom left-hand corner, which I bought in the airport - ladies from a fresco in Knossos. I told her this, and asked if I could take her photograph. She told me I should come to live in her village - did I have a husband? Ok, bring the husband, and she would find us a house. I would learn Greek. I would be happy in the sunshine. When we left - for of course we did leave - she shook my hand. The newspaper is what she wrapped the honey in. It survived intact - as did the can of olive oil from their own olives.

A taste of Crete in chilly Scotland.