To find myself sitting on a rock, slightly precariously peering down into hefty fall, was a sobering experience for me at that point of my life. My downturned Rushdie novel dismissed in front of me – a difficult novel for such an important time – and Scott Walker soulfully accompanying me on my Walkman, it had only been a week since my departure from Aberdeen. Here, on my own idyllic Greek Island, this boy from East Kilbride had finally made it.
The sea appeared to me as blue slate. Such calm I had never seen; this was not Ayr, Prestwick, Aberdeen with their rough, choppy, threatening waters. The blue a shade of blue I had never witnessed either. A painting and a happy hopeful one at that. If I strained my eyes I could, just about, make out a distant island but this was, more or less, as isolated as I had ever been in my life.
I had reservations about here, about Greece. Would an Island be too far away? Would it be too quiet or even too busy? Neither. Just perfect. The rock I sat on became very familiar very quickly. Even at night I sat here, in awe of the stars above me. Even at night the sky took on bluish hue which I had never seen before: a breathless blue.
I sat here and watched the ferries carrying business in and out of the island. Three times a day. And for some reason I watched with a slight regret as it left. Perhaps it was symbol of another time, another place, my only means of departure. Perhaps it reminded me of my dad, who had his lived all of his earlier adult life on boats. A navy man throughout.
And look at me now. On a Greek Island. My first professional post. My new life. My hours suited me very nicely throughout my time in Syros. Five O’clock in the evening until nine, Monday to Friday, two until six on Saturday. My classroom had two tables with three seats at each. Six seats. Six only. My room was cramped and through the back of the small school but I was, more or less, left on my own.
I had a pleasant relationship with the school owner, certainly in the first year, and he trusted me and left me alone. Occasionally, I would come into school to complete some preparation or to check for mail, which was sent here. No computers at this time you see. However, for the most part, I tried to keep away outside working hours. My walk home was the same every day. I walked up a whitewashed set of stairs, passing a small grocers at the top. When I turned around at this point, half way up a steep hill, I could see forever. Over the town square, scanning the harbourside, into the distance of blue Mediterranean Ocean. It was glorious. It felt like heaven and it went through my mind on several occasions that I would never leave here. I would though; when things went wrong.
Not far from here, my apartment sat back into a garden area. It was small, white and had shuttered windows which I loved opening in the morning. Large open windows. I would sit here, pretentiously, on a pillow with coffee and read for much of the day. The view was, again, magnificent. I had neighbours: another single man – a soldier, I believe – on the left; a family of four on the right. No-one around during the day, mind you. I read more than I ever had, throwing books over my shoulder as I went and, little did I know, I would be developing a habit which I carry with me still. Always a book in my hand, my pocket.
I had never really been abroad before, this boy from East Kilbride, and, I am embarrassed to say, that I was too shy too eat out in any of the Tavernas for about a month after I arrived. Don’t know what I expected. Too expensive perhaps, too Greek. Nothing in English. Evenings would find me walking along the sea front, pondering over Menus, little realising the delights I was missing. So I ate at home. Pasta, meat and potatoes, exactly what I had been eating at home. Eventually, sickened by my repetitive diet, I took a breath and went out for dinner. Socially, that first night was to change everything.