Lizzie’s sister H., who’s not short of a penny or two, has incredibly kindly offered to take us all on holiday to Greece. It’s her gesture to Lizzie really – a way of saying ‘I know you’ve had an incredibly shit year, here’s something which will hopefully make you feel a little better.’
We’re actually going to go with H. and her family (husband and two sons) to Kefalonia in the Ionian Islands. It’s where Captain Corelli’s Mandolin was set and, in fact, is the only bit of Greece I’ve previously been to.
In the weeks leading up to the trip, I bore my family with a steady stream of facts about the place… some gleaned from guide books when I was previously there (‘do you know an earthquake in the 1950s destroyed nearly all of the original architecture of the island?’)… some more anecdotal (‘do you know Kefalonia is where my friend F. met his future wife K., when we went on our trip there twenty years ago?’).
My family aren’t remotely interested in any of this (well, that’s not entirely true. Lizzie and Annie are interested to hear where F. met K. But that’s as far as it goes).
The holiday has begun and we’re splashing about in the Ionian Sea, in the summer heat.
The island of Kefalonia is just as lovely as I remember it. Low-lying mountains surround three sides of the bay in which we swim. Our holiday resort lies directly by the beach and, although modern, even the resort is pleasing to look at… with its villas’ curved terracotta tiles undulating gently like ripples in an orange sea.
On the way from the airport, to the resort, I’ve been boring the children with further stories about my one previous visit to Kefalonia. I describe, in relentless detail, about how my friends and I visited an ancient fort in the centre of the island – one of the few places which survived the earthquake of 1953. I point to the mountainous terrain and explain the thrill of hiring a small car and tearing around the hairpin bends, as my friends and I did for that single week in the early 2000s.
In a strange way, as I frolic in the sea with my kids – plus the two sons of Lizzie’s sister H. – I feel like this is a homecoming. Not exactly a return to my spiritual home… I wouldn’t say I connected with the island as much as that. But I certainly feel like I’ve reconnected with a simpler, more carefree time of my life – my late twenties.
‘Kefalonia!’ I sigh in the direction of the kids, as the azure water splashes around us. ‘It’s a beautiful island, isn’t it?’
‘We’re not on an island,’ says H.’s younger son E., who’s swimming in a warm current nearby. ‘We’re in Greece. Greece isn’t an island.’
‘Yes, we are in Greece. But Kefalonia is actually one of the islands of Greece,’ I correct E., with patronising patience.
‘In fact, it’s one of the Ionian Islands,’ I continue knowledgeably. ‘But it’s still Greece. I can understand why you’re confused about it, though.’
‘We’re not on an island,’ continues E., simply. ‘We’re on mainland Greece.’
And with that, he swims off.
I feel mounting panic inside of me. Could E. be correct? Are we on mainland Greece after all? Not on Kefalonia?
I try to remember why I thought we were going to Kefalonia, in the first place.
It was Lizzie! Lizzie who thought Kefalonia was our destination!
But Lizzie’s frequently wrong about this kind of thing. Her sense of geography sucks. I mean, even after we’d lived by Richmond (Surrey) for over a decade, she still managed to get lost in the place. And it’s not exactly big.
And let’s not even think about the time she drove over Hammersmith Bridge on the wrong side of the road, one evening. I think Lizzie thought she was in America. In her defence, she did live in LA for four years. But still…
So, it’s not a huge leap to think that Lizzie was wrong that we’d be holidaying on the island of Kefalonia.
But if we’re not on Kefalonia… where the hell are we?
E. said we’re on the mainland of Greece. And surely that must be correct. All the signs are written in what looks like modern Greek.
But in which bit of Greece are we? North? South? In the middle?
I try to remember the name of the airport we flew to… but it’s gone.
And I can’t get any wi-fi in the hotel, so I can’t look on Google Maps.
I paddle back to shore and ask Lizzie (who’s sunbathing) if she knows where we are.
‘Kefalonia?’ she offers.
Hopeless, I think.
To be continued….
P. D. Clifton 
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