A Pheasant in a Pet Shop & a Vlach from Oz by the Pool

I have just moved hotels. I need somewhere quieter to work and so after a few days near Corfu town I am back in a rather secluded little place down the coast. That is to say, Spiros has welcomed me back with open arms as I am back at the hotel that appeared to have only one room on the booking site but where I was in fact the only guest. It appears that there has been a massive pick up in trade and now, three of the 15 rooms are occupied. How many businesses in Greece can boast of a 200% increase in revenues in just a few days?

I leave my last hotel with a good stack of happy memories (no Swedish blondes sadly) but a couple are worth mentioning. For my father first.

I was sitting by the pool having a drink (diet coke natch) and at the next table were a family from Oz. As the kids and mum went off for a swim the Dad ordered another beer and we started chatting. He had spent time in Islington 20 years ago before he was married and had had a great time. The wife was in earshot so we did not pursue that one. His family moved to Oz from Greece 40 years ago and he was just off to visit the ancestral home next week in Northern Greece – he was set to go to Lake Ochrid.

Heck, I swam there as a child – its waters lap up on the shore in Albania, Greece and the FYR of Macedonia. We discussed this. Why on earth was I there he wondered – most folks go on holiday to the coastline. And so I said that my father studied people called the Vlachs (a small nomadic tribe living in that area whom no-one other than readers of this blog and a few academics who read my father’s books know about). The Vlachs, he cried. My grandmother and grandfather were Vlachs. You do not often meet Vlachs even in Greece these days. But Australian Vlachs, that must be a rarity.

Meanwhile in between the hotel and the tavern where I ate only Greek salads (natch) there was a pet store. A sweet little puppy sat in a cage begging you to rescue him. There were some canaries. But then also some chickens (okay for laying eggs – I get that bit) and in a cage in the corner… a rather scrawny looking pheasant. I know where the dog will end up. The chickens have a half chance of having a decent life as egg layers before they hit the pot but the pheasant…

I suppose it might make a family pet. It could be that someone wants to sit on the sofa with it, stroking its feathers and watching TV. Someone may wish to take it for walks in the park. But I suspect not. The pheasant did not look happy. I suspect that unlike the dog and the budgies and canaries, the pheasant’s next journey will be a short one with an inevitable conclusion. Its solemn gait suggests it may have an inkling of its fate.