A table, a chair, a square

In a small, sleepy village called Eleuthero, in an enclosed square containing a great big tree, a statue, and an eclectic mix of tables and chairs, I sit. At one of those tables, in one of those chairs. And in every direction the mountains rise up up up above me. Wandering clouds gather at the peaks, casting around for their next landing. A silent breeze sets the leaves in motion. It’s the middle of the day and no one is to be seen anywhere. Two dogs, one collared one not, roam here and there. From that collar hangs a high-noted bell which rings out over the sound of the stream, the only other sound around.

A man wearing heavy boots, camouflaged trousers, a striped shirt, and a MasterCard hat stomps down a little laneway that leads into the square, roaring from somewhere deep in his chest at one of these dogs for having roamed where roaming is forbidden, says he. The dog looks up, un-startled, and seems to give a sigh before trotting off towards the church. Even with that, the peace of this place is little disturbed.

I’m in Greece now. My heart — ever dramatic — tells me it cannot bear to be outside of Albania, but Greece wears its own charms. The people are kind, the way is calm, fruiting trees announce their abundance with all the colours of the rainbow, and these rivers, forests, and mountains are not shy in their beauty.