Drosakis

Driving into the village this morning I saw the familiar figure of Mrs Drosakis walking ahead of me carrying two bags of tasty weeds tied to a stick over her shoulder, one fore, one aft. As is our habit I pulled alongside her, opening the passenger door for her to get in and began the ritual greeting “Good morning, how are you? Happy New Year”. She crumpled into tears saying “Nikos died!” I crumpled into tears too “When?” “Ten days”. I hugged her and drove her to the village as usual, she telling me all about it and me in silence not understanding most of what she said, both of us in tears.
Her husband, Nikos Drosakis, was such a lovely cheerful smiley man. Because he had a few words of English, if I met him in the village he would greet me with “Are you fine?” and I would reply “Poly fine Nikos”. His hair was thin and white, combed over his head Bobby Charlton style with some inexplicable blue streaks that I tried not to stare at and never asked about.
Nikos and his wife lived happily together with her sister. They were always laughing and smiling and joking. I don't think I have ever met such joyful people.
They are, to the best of my knowledge, the very last family from the village to live the old way. From October until May they occupy their house in the village with citrus trees in the garden and from May until October they live in their cottage on their small holding with vegetables, fruit trees, almonds etc. They own no vehicles and always travel on foot. Anything that needs to be transported is tied to the end of a stick and slung over a shoulder. Their smallholding is roughly 2km outside the village and whenever we see them on the road we stop and give them a lift. They also have an olive grove quite close to our house and Nikos was working there just before Christmas, pruning the trees, strimming the ground beneath them, caring for the land as used to be the norm.
After I dropped Mrs Drosakis off I asked other villagers about Nikos' death. Apparently he had a fatal heart attack on Saturday morning 26th Dec. Had he lived until March we would have asked him to graft some of our trees as that was his special skill. On my way home from the village I stopped to photograph his olive grove. So beautifully tended.
He was 86. I had no idea.