Summer Indolence

The Public Square is important

Somebody told me once - a writer much more successful than I - that writers should never apologise to their readers for failing to write. However, I think an apology is due. My last post on this site was weeks ago. Since then I have acquired a few new paying subscribers and hundreds more readers. But, despite this, I’ve chosen to enjoy the sun here in Greece rather too much. Indolence has taken over. But, as noted by Bernard Williams, “I like the word indolence, it makes my laziness seem classy”.  

Regular readers will know about my fondness for Greece in the Summer. I’ve been here for around 8 weeks, on and off, over the Spring and Summer this year. I travel light, and my Macbook always makes the trip. But, alas, it sits alone and unused in my very well-used canvas backpack. The lure of getting ridiculously over-tanned, or baking the best Moussaka in all of Greece, or sipping Ouzo in a taverna (even on days I’ve vowed not to drink alcohol) is just too much to resist. Ranting about Keir Starmer’s public smoking ban will just have to wait, I think to myself.  Anyway, I’m sure most of my readers are similarly distracted enjoying their Summers - even if they are spending them in rainy old Blighty.  

Grok’s version of a Greek Village

But a couple of things conspired to kick me into motivation to overcome my indolence-based writer’s block. For one thing, one paying subscriber made it known that she wanted more posts. And I fully understand. While this isn’t exactly a high paying gig, I do appreciate that people have an expectation - particularly after the flurry of activity in the lead-up to the UK general election where I, and a few others from the ‘awake’ movement, felt compelled to express what turned-out to be a very commonly held view: that democracy is failing us. The New Era is essentially the post-truth era (for politicians and the media) where the jockeying for power and control eats everything like a black hole. 

Now, I’m sure you’ll appreciate that this isn’t exactly a topic that one readily wants to peel oneself off the beach for.  It’s not exactly a great topic for discussion when people are seeking a well-earned rest from the misery of globalist technocratic government overreach.  My wife and I were having a very enjoyable meal and drinks with a couple of friends at a local taverna when I went off on a Tsipouro-inspired tangent about the loss of liberty and Keir Starmer being a totalitarian thug - just like the late Tories.  No-one wants that on a balmy evening on the Aegean coast.  

But the other reason for this post is last night. We, reluctantly at first, decided to make our way to our local village. We were tired. We’d spent the day lolling on the beach, swimming lots, people-watching and were looking forward to an early night.

But we had been told that there was to be a music concert outside one of the local bars. We felt we should be supportive and be seen to be there. So we made our way to the village. 

Sure enough, when we arrived there were a few locals who had grabbed the best vantage points outside the bar to see the assembled band, playing Greek traditional music. The Bouzouki player was particularly impressive. Several villagers took turns to sing. Many of the revellers were eating pizza or Gyros at their hastily assembled tables as Chris, the barman, set-up a veritable smorgasbord of bar-tabs as punters raided his fridge of chilled glasses and big bottles of Mythos. He also took the time to get us a table and chairs in a prime position. 

And, soon, more people arrived. And more. And then a guy arrived on a big motor-scooter with his wife behind and his small daughter in front. He parked-up his beast of a bike and they all disembarked. I said to my wife, “Look who has just arrived from central casting”.  He was a huge man - not fat, just huge and dark-eyed. He had a big head of hair tied in a pony-tail. His wife was dark and pretty and his daughter had little diamonds over her face. Dad downed two giant bottles of Mythos as boxes of gyros and pita were delivered to their tables. And everyone - ourselves included - watched them, knowing that they, in some way, would be part of the performance. They already were. 

And, on cue, of course, Dad reared-up from his table, a pita-box was pushed out of the way, his daughter wished him luck and she grinned and her little diamond cheeks sparkled. And off he stomped to where two other men stood ready, arms outstretched, awaiting their Tsamiko partner. 

This dance - typical to the Peloponnese - involves men, arms interlocked across their shoulders, performing quite intricate dancing - and quite slowly. At key points they, in unison, move from standing position to a low squat. Sometimes they rock on their soles, step, skip. It’s a joy to behold. Men locked together as friends, joyous, engaging in a dance that’s as old as the big limestone massifs that look down on the villages. 

The three men danced for around 4 or 5 minutes. Then they were done. And the guy returned to his family threesome. His little dark haired daughter ran to him and hugged him - barely able to reach his waist and just kissed him on the hip as he lifted her aloft, proud as a fine-aged Tsipouro. 

The evening was over shortly after this. A collection was taken for the band. I went into the bar to settle-up with Chris and he had long-since given-up on his flurry of drinks tabs. “What’d you have, I dunno” he said. I hazarded a guess, gave him some money, and he seemed happy. Others were raiding his shelves of Ouzo now that beer-time was over. 

Greece, or rather the freedom that Greece represents, is ineffable. It can’t really be put into words. Sure, it’s easier to feel that constancy of community and the immediacy of love when people can sit in squares and laugh and be together - because it’s not cold and raining. But governments that force us inside, tell us to sit at home, tell us what’s best for us when we know it’s not, aren’t looking after our public health. We need to be in the public square - inside or out - chatting, eating, debating, being ourselves and being silly or being serious.