Greece is jasmine, bougainvillea, mimosa, cypress, olive, pine, oregano and sage, rock, sand, wine, fruit and the bluest and cleanest water in the Med. The Peloponnese has the nicest, most welcoming and generous of people, none more than my host and hostess at their private island, literally a paradise on earth. Around 60 staff keep the place ticking along perfectly, and one thing I’ve learned in this long life of mine among the rich and famous is, you can’t fake it with the ones who work for you: if they don’t love you, it shows. I’ve seen it time and again, the long faces of staff among famous Italian carmakers, German industrialists, Texan oil giants. I’ve even seen it where Greek ship owners are concerned, we Greeks being particularly close with those who work for us. You are what those who work for you think of you. In the private island where I spent the last week, the faces of those who looked out for us told the story. We sure were one big happy family.
I sailed in and the trouble started as if a gun had gone off. A Nero-like feast awaited, fruit, vegetables, homemade pasta, rosé wine to tempt Odysseus to untie himself and take on Circe — but I spotted the danger quicker than you can say Englishmen. Three of them were descending towards the feast, so I let out a cry reminiscent of the warning at Messolonghi, when treachery led the hated Turks to await the exodus of the encircled Greeks, who died to a man. ‘I’m a Greek, a patriot, save some for me.’ Gavin Rankin, proprietor of London’s finest restaurant, Bellamy’s, Dave Ker, a man who unbeknownst to him once won a male beauty contest in the Soviet Union, and the Duke of Marlborough, no comment needed, were about to attack the food and I happened to be hungry.
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