The Ionian June 2012

The Ionian June 2012 Volume 3. Issue 4 www.theionian.com COMPLIMENTARY/∆ΩΡΕΑΝ Please recycle: give to a friend or neighbour when finished.

Focus on Lefkas Page 8

The art of spring gardening Page 7

Crossed lines Page 10

Ionian Olympic pride Page 5

Escape from the deep Page 12

It’s a frog’s life Page 13

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The Ionian Contact us: Email: admin@theionian.com Website: www.theionian.com Founding Publisher: Justin Smith Publisher: Barbara Molin Managing Editor: Barbara Molin Editor Martin Stote Business Advisor: Yannis Dimopoulos Business Advisor: Ryan Smith Greek Editors: V. Gigi and V. Lekkas Layout: Barbara Molin Printing: Graphic Arts Advertising: Colleen Shears Kim Davies Subscriptions: Barbara Molin You can download The Ionian free as a PDF document from our website: www.theionian.com.

The Ionian is published monthly. Published on the last day before each month, approximately.

Publication is for informational purposes only.

Although The Ionian has made every effort to ensure the accuracy of the information contained in this publication, the publisher cannot be held responsible for any errors or omissions it may contain. The opinions expressed by the contributors are not necessarily held by the publisher.

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Cover Photo: Dolphins by Barbara de Ma-

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Believe it or not There is an old saying in journalism, "If in doubt, leave it out." Had we stuck to that principle there would not have been much to read in this month's issue of The Ionian. Which isn't to say that we don't stand by every word.

Not many people believed stoker John Capes, when he managed to survive the sinking in December 1941 of the British submarine HMS Perseus, which hit an Italian mine off Kefalonia. The story of the events of that disaster and Capes' eventual rescue from the island by MI9 are told in Jean Baker's story Escape from the deep on page 12 of this month's edition of The Ionian.

Similarly there were a few raised eyebrows when Robin Lamb insisted that he was the wronged party in an incident of tangled anchor chains in Lefkas harbour. Robin continues to protest his innocence in Crossed lines on page 10.

And a certain suspension of disbelief is needed for Robin's other article, It's a frog's life on page 13, in which he tells how a persistent amphibian stowaway kept turning up in his gas cylinder locker on board Sundowner. Robin decided that the frog must have been getting high on the gas.

Another Mythos, Robin?

Barbara de Machula's neighbour couldn't believe her eyes when she saw Barbara planting out her spring seedlings without first digging a generous amount of kupria - sheep muck - into the ground.

And it had to be not any old kupria, but well-rotted kupria. Barbara explains in The art of spring gardening on page 7, how she eventually found kupria of adequate antiquity by visiting a stable so old that it "looked as if it had once had an earlier life in Bethlehem."

In Focus on Lefkas, page 8, our editor Martin Stote tells how he and his wife always make a beeline for their favourite taverna every time they moor up in this cosmopolitan, chic little maritime town. He claims he always buys the chef a beer.

In Only for a moment, on page 13, boating bard Tom Alsop describes how in a moment of carelessness he lost his footing while clambering into his tender. I CAN believe that. Done it a few times myself.

Finally, there was no doubting the excitement afoot when the Olympic torch was carried into Vonitsa. Ronne van Zuidam was there to see it and describes the mood of the town that day on page 5 in Ionian Olympic pride.

Enjoy reading... ~~~_/) Barbara Molin

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Five local youths climbed onto the podium to accept the Olympic flame which arrived to great applause and cheers.

“It was good to see that during these difficult times the people of Vonitsa could show so much pride and enthusiasm for a flame that was headed for the UK.” Then the athletes set off again, heading for Aktion, Preveza, Ioanina and Thessaloniki.

The Olympic flame continued its journey in Greece for another few days, and arrived in the UK on a special flight on May 18.

And at 7:15 am the next day, Saturday May 19, it began its marathon 70-day, 8,000-mile relay around Britain starting at Land's End in Cornwall. Triple Olympic gold medallist sailor Ben Ainslie was the first torchbearer. The torch is due to reach London on July 21, six days before the Games begin.

The Olympic flame was lit, and had to be hastily re-lit after it flickered out, in what was otherwise an elegant and symbolic ceremony in front of the ruins of the Temple of Hera at Olympia on May 10th.

The Olympic Anthem and the British National Anthem were played and the Olympic Flag and the Union Flag were raised. The London 2012 chairman Lord Coe made a short speech in which he said, “We have profound gratitude to Greece.”

But behind the ceremony and the spectacle, Ronne van Zuidam the plight of Greece’s athletes remained a subject of national regret and sadness. Because waiting in national costumes. The mayor of of a shortage of funds, Greece is expected to Vonitsa, Nikos Soldatos, spoke movingly about brass band played, the streets were field just 75 athletes at the 2012 Games, less the Olympic spirit. than half the team they sent to Beijing and a decorated with Greek and Olympic flags, and Camera crews from the television station excited children clutched smaller flags and ERT drove with the athletes, who had come via sixth of the team that represented the country in Athens 2004. olive branches as the Olympic flame arrived in Agrinion, Amfologia, and Paliambela, to bright sunshine in the Ionian town of Vonitsa capture the ceremony live on TV. on May 12th.

Pauline Scrimgeour, who had just sailed into Ronne van Zuidam is from Holland and lives Crowds gathered to see the athletes arrive at the town with her husband Ian on their Moody with her husband in Paliambela near Vonitsa where they own some holiday apartments. the stage erected at the end of the main street, 376, Arcadia, said, “The high street looked www.5alonia.nl two days after the torch was lit at the event’s lovely with newly painted white kerb stones Photos by Ronne van Zuidam unless otherwise spiritual home in ancient Olympia on the and lots of Greek flag bunting. The town was noted.

Peloponnese, at the start of its long journey to clearly in a festive mood. Then we noticed a London for the 2012 Olympic Games. podium, above which was a banner with the The brass band played the Greek National London Olympic logo and we realised that Anthem as the torch was handed over to new the Olympic flame was due to arrive. athletes. In front of the stage, a group of “Crowds started to gather, music was children from sports clubs in the town were blasted out through loudspeakers, and the roads were cordoned off. The local junior Taikwando club arrived complete with pristine white outfits, merrily waving paper flags.

Then the local brass band abandoned their seats in the taverna, armed themselves with their instruments and proudly marched along the street, their music adding greatly to the party atmosphere.

“There were many speeches and although we couldn't understand a word, we could feel the excitement gathering as the flame approached.

Ionian Olympic pride

A

©Pauline Scrimgeour

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sprout little green shoots fighting their way up through the soil. I think it is magic!

Then after a week or so the plants were ready to be planted, a solemn moment in my new gardening life. So with my little spade and the tray of baby greens, on a sunny morning, before the day grew too hot, I was ready to do my thing. But almost immediately my gardening instructor, the lady who lives next door, let out a piercing shriek in Greek. “No! No! Don't do that! You need kupria first!”

This was a word I remembered. It is the rich black manure made of sheep droppings. I used a few sacks last year from a farmer down town, and so now my gardening schedule had hit a rock even before I started planting.

Fortunately, the sheep farmer came the next morning with new sacks of kupria, and again I was ready to make a start. But my neighbour came running out again in horror, with even more Greek cries of alarm.

What was wrong this time? I had these beautiful fresh sacks of kupria, Barbara de Machula still warm from the stable, you could feel the energy they gave off. And that was the problem, apparently. My kupria was too fresh. It should be at least a year old, my neighbour insisted, fter the incessant winter floods that washed away our or otherwise the soil would be road three times, we were finally blessed with a few weeks of over-energised and burn my bright sunshine, and Mother Nature immediately responded little plants. with an abundance of flowers and butterflies, breathtaking I sighed deeply and nearly landscapes and even dolphins cavorting in our bay. threw in the trowel. Instead, I But there was a downside. We also had to fight the weeds that got some kupria from a stable an invisible hand had seeded in unwanted places, like our so ancient that it looked as if it vegetable garden-in-waiting. This year in the village, I noticed had once had an earlier life in an increase in vegetable plots, perhaps because of the financial Bethlehem. crisis. People now want a few extra veggies just in case…

This time, when I pricked out Some of you may remember my disaster last summer when my plants, even the birds were the cows ate all my fruit trees, tomatoes, pumpkins and whatever else singing, and I had this special feeling inside, a glow of pride and was growing on our mountain. So this year I decided that it was time for expectation and a vision of abundant crops. Peter, my loved one, didn’t revenge. We erected a solid fence of concrete get it. He glanced over at me as he took a break from his welding and iron sheets around the fruit trees, leaving space said, "What on earth are you going to do with all those tomatoes?" for a proper vegetable garden.

I bought this little iron spade and decided that Besides gardening, writing and taking photos, Barbara de Machula also teaches painting. www.paintingholidaygreece.com it was time for exercise and manual labour.

Those of you who know me, will acknowledge that I am not built for exercise. But with my new spade I thought I could tackle any plot of soil that needed ridding of weeds and grasses.

I did notice that my fellow village gardeners had these nice little rotavators, and everywhere around the village I heard the plopping and purring sounds of petrol engines, making neat, virgin furrows of cleaned earth, waiting in all their pristine glory to be seeded.

I wanted to prove to myself that I am a tough girl, and I also had the romantic idea that the veggies would be tastier when they were the product of hard manual labour. I managed to clear six square meters by hand. It took me a week to recover from that, but I felt proud, and 10 kilos lighter!

Next, I ordered these “heirloom” seeds from America - funny sweet cherry tomatoes and pumpkins and melons and peppers and many others. Seeding is fun. You quickly see the trays left outside in the sun

The art of spring gardening

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Focus on: Martin Stote

E

very time we sail into Lefkas, we

rehearse a ritual. We walk from the marina or the town quay through the labyrinth of back streets of what was once I imagine the old seamens’ and fishermens’ quarter, with its narrow alleyways, pastel-coloured houses with their Caribbean-style overhanging corrugated metal upper stories - a legacy of the 1948 earthquake and picturesque little courtyards, until we reach the Seven Islands taverna, next to the first alleyway up from the main square.

There we order a carafe of wine, a couple of cold beers, send one through to Jorgos, the chef, who always manages a big smile of welcome even though he looks like a man who has been sweating over a hot stove since 6 am that morning, and await the invitation to inspect the food in the kitchen.

There, one of the two waitresses pulls from a couple of large ovens a glorious succession of enormous metal baking trays groaning with food. Huge stuffed tomatoes glistening in olive oil, stuffed vine leaves like miniature British Racing Green torpedoes, plump with their payloads of rice and onions and spices, kleftiko, moist in its duvet of baking parchment, and fragrant with a bouquet of oregano and cinnamon, and moussaka with its caramel-brown topping, just begging to be cut into delicious chunky wedges.

We usually sit at one of the tables in the alleyway beneath the overhead collection of dangling straw hats, where occasionally a youngster will manoeuvre past on a puttering motorbike or scooter, or a local resident will turn a key in the lock of the door of one of the houses just across the alley and disappear into the dark and silent recesses within. At the end of the meal, by which time we have often struck up a conversation with whoever is sat at an adjoining table, there will often be a complimentary slice of melon or a little Greek sweet.

I had better say at this point, before the boss fires me for blatant favouritism, that I am not on commission, and there are many delightful and interesting restaurants in this chic and colourful little Greek maritime town. Some, like the Seven Islands, are homely and fun. Others, like those occupying the more high-profile spots along the seafront opposite the marina, have grander aspirations and are more tourist-orientated. We enjoyed 8 The Ionian www.theionian.com June 2012

Lefkas ©Sakis Zogas, Photo Net

many satisfying meals finding our favourite place to eat, and you will too. Wherever you choose, you will have to decide whether to tip the itinerant street musicians, or cock a deaf ‘un.

In his book on the Greek Islands, written in 1978, Lawrence Durrell dismissed Lefkada as a “sad little island” with the northern end having nothing of interest for the visitor. What a difference 35 years makes. Lefkas today is a thoroughly modern and cosmopolitan town which has also maintained –no easy trick- its charm and its heritage.

In the shops along the main streets of Ioannou Mela and Dorpfeld (named after the 19th century archaeologist who tried to claim Odysseus as a son of the island), you can buy everything from fresh vegetables and Lefkas honey to designer clothes, throws and lanterns and sculptures from several tasteful bo-ho interior design shops, traditional wood carvings, tourist gifts, or a fender or a rope for your boat.

There are bars with Wi-Fi and camera shops where you can have your films developed. My wife once bought a tiny jar of exquisite rose petal jam, made, allegedly, by monks from an unidentified monastery, following a centuries-old secret recipe. We later found the recipe on the internet. It’s the only time in ten years we ever felt the victims of tourist hype. But the jam was very good.

Visit the Folk Museum and see how villagers dressed for a traditional Greek wedding; or the Archaeological Museum and learn about the island’s even earlier history; have a coffee outside one of the cafes on Sikelianou and gaze over the heat haze shimmering across the salt lagoon.

In the baking afternoons of high summer, the main streets resemble a ghost town; the shops close and the locals vanish into the cool shade of their homes. But come late evening, a carnival vibrancy takes hold as the shops burst back into life, Greek families and a smattering of visitors from many parts of Europe join the grand promenade, and the corn on the cob vendors ©Vic Middleton fire up their barbecues.

Martin Stote, 63, a retired Daily Express staff journalist, has been sailing with his wife Sue in the Ionian for eleven years, initially with Sunsail, and now on their own 42-foot syndicate yacht Kanula. He is the Editor of The Ionian. His wife Sue Smith worked as a journalist for the Birmingham Post and Evening Mail for 28 years, and for the Wolverhampton Express & Star for four years, and took up photography later as a hobby. They love the islands for their beauty, and the generosity of the people. Never knowingly under-reefed, they have yet to make Zakynthos.

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I think you’ve snagged my anchor.

I think you’ve snagged mine too.

What a mess!

Free at last.

It’s a fender bender.

We’ll pull you out. Make sure your end is tied on!

Crossed Lines Robin Lamb This classic case of fouled anchors, which happened in Lefkas late last month and which happens in most harbours on a daily basis, had Robin Lamb remembering a similar tangle in which he insists he was the innocent victim. (Sure you were, Robin!)........

Some years back I had moored stern-to on

the Lefkas quayside to pick up some supplies. I was packing them in their appropriate lockers below, when a group in a German-flagged Bavaria came in on my starboard side. Some bumping and thumping announced their arrival and when I emerged from the saloon they were tying up.

“I am ok here, ja?”

“As long as you haven’t come to discuss football,” I told him (Germany had just beaten England 4-1 and I had watched the whole miserable performance in Vlicho Yacht Club).

He grunted and returned to tying up his bits of string. As we spoke, a bunch of Brits on a Jeanneau came in to moor stern-to on my port side. I took their lines as they came in.

Some time later I was ready to go, it was about a quarter of an hour before the Lefkas bridge opened, so plenty of time. Close all hatches and stow everything that is likely to fall over, take the passarail in, remove the snubber from the anchor chain, etc., etc. I started the motor and took in the leeward aft line as it was not really doing anything.

“Do you want any help?” called the skipper of the Jeanneau.

“No I should be all right - though you might care to fend off, I am on my own so the departure may be a bit clumsy,” I said casually.

“The anchor chain will drop once I start releasing the other aft line and should take me out nicely. Once I am clear of you lot I can start to make a nice clean pick up. There’s no wind to speak of.

“You’ve obviously done this before.”

“Oh yes,” I said, putting an air of nonchalance into my voice - difficult with a mouth dry with nerves.

Sundowner slipped out neat as you like between the two boats but then it became obvious that there was a cross over. The anchor chain rattled as though running along another chain and the chain of the Bavaria was shaking and rattling too. Normally, the co-operation of the boat whose anchor is across yours helps the situation but they had left the boat to shop, or something.

I was in the middle of trying to raise the offending chain to the surface, when I was asked by a Danish-flagged boat whether I would mind moving so they could get out of their berth on the other side of the Bavaria.

“Pardon but we want to catch the bridge.”

“Me too.”

I managed to motor away out of their path for long enough for them to get away but was closing on the Bavaria.

Once the Danes were clear I was able to resume the recovery of my anchor, but the Brits were now getting agitated. Their chain was rattling too indicating to them that I was crossed with theirs. However, I could now see the chains. Mine was running parallel to my British neighbours but the Bavaria’s anchor chain was at quite an angle to both of us - over mine and under his, as neat a bit of weaving as you could hope for. The disturbance created by my chain was being transmitted to the Brits chain by the Bavaria’s chain.

“Wait. I will start my engine and let off some chain.” The skipper of the Jeanneau shouted.

“You don’t need to.”

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“I do. You are across my chain. I can feel it.”

“No, I’m not. I can see it. The rattling is being caused by the chain that is over mine and under yours” But he turned away to confer and possibly missed what I had said. So I started to pull in more anchor chain. That got his attention.

“Wait. Can’t you wait? I just have to put something back together then I will start my engine.”

“You don’t flipping need to.”

“I do. You’re crossed under my chain.”

“No I’m not!”

This amusing debate carried on (sprinkled with a few profanities) with me continuing to pick up chain. One of his crew rowed out and confirmed that what I was telling him was indeed true. He then came aboard to see if he could help.

The problem was quite bad because I had laid out a lot of chain - both a good and a bad thing.

My anchor was way past the crossing point so, with no one on the Bavaria slackening chain, it was going to be impossible to pull up anchor and drop his chain from it. The only remedy was to detach my anchor chain from my boat having first tied a line to it on the other side of the cross over.

I secured my boat on station by putting a line around the Bavaria’s anchor chain. Once secured, I could feed out my anchor chain under his chain praying that the knot I had tied around my anchor line was a good ‘un and I wasn’t about to lose my anchor and chain. It was a bit of a heart stopping moment letting go of the chain even though I had checked and rechecked that everything was secure and as it should be.

I was in the middle of this when I heard some shouting and looking up and towards the stern I could see a Swedish flagged boat all but sat on my stern.

“Are you comink or goink?”

“I’m stuck-ink.”

“Pardon?”

“I am stuck. I have a crossed chain. I am trying to deal with it.”

“We want to moor there and you are in our way,” he indicated the harbour-side berth that had been vacated by the Danes.

“Right now chum I seem to be in every ******’s (person’s) way. You’ll have to wait.

And would you mind moving your boat off mine. You’re not helping.”

By now the crew of the Bavaria were back on board and I was piling up chain on the deck and being shouted at.

“You are across our line.”

“It’s you who are across mine.”

“Vot?” “Oh never mind.”

“Be careful of our anchor.”

“Thank you that’s most helpful.” I wished I had a grasp on the German language but I hadn’t so I adopted the strategy of just letting them shout at me while I got on with it.

I pulled in the line that I had attached to my anchor chain and recovered the chain then fed it back through the rollers over the gypsy and into the locker then secured the end in the locker. I was now in a position to pull in the anchor. I thanked the Brit for his help as he got aboard his tender and left.

I then ceremoniously released my line to the Bavaria’s anchor line blowing him a kiss as I waved bye bye. He waved both hands, one with four fingers held out, the other with just one. I knew he would not be able to resist talking about football for long. I also felt that had there

been a poll for the most popular boat in the harbour, I would have difficulty making the top ten. Ha, well at least I was out of it – nearly.

The anchor came up cleanly in so far as there were no more crossed lines but uncleanly in that it had a fisherman’s discarded net wrapped around it. Mud, weights, netting, and line were wrapped in and out of the curious curved protrusions of my Bruce anchor. It was wound around so tight and the lead weights were so big that it was almost impossible to move. If I hauled the anchor in close, there was not sufficient room between anchor and boat to wangle the netting and weighting clear of the anchor flukes. If I released it a bit, the whole mess was difficult to reach without overbalancing and falling in the water – my final swansong of complete incompetence. I was drifting now - a 38 ft Bavaria (yes, mine is a Bavaria too), with no one at the helm but with a lump of mud drooped over the pulpit wrestling with another lump of mud that was wrapped around the anchor.

“You are rather near to me” this time British and upper crust with it to judge by the accent. I was closing on a smart blue 50 ft sloop. A smart blue ensign, blue blazers and pink gins completed the picture if you know what I mean.

“But I have missed you,” I said as we slid past his tender leaving a gap you would have difficulty stuffing a cigarette paper into ‘phheww.’ I finally got the whole mess free and dropped it into the water. I suppose I should have taken it aboard rather than drop it where someone else might pick it up but it was heavy and I was weary and I wasn’t thinking straight.

I walked back to the helm oozing mud all over the show and I thought I heard: “Yachting is just not the same now the working class can afford it.”

“Quite, what is the world coming to old boy?”

“Care for another pink gin?”

“Do you know, I don’t mind if I do.”

Oh, and I did miss the Lefkas swing bridge opening but caught the one an hour later, in case you’re wondering.

Photos: B. Molin

Here is a reminder that it's not only yachties who get their anchors in a twist. This daycharter boat skipper made a pretty good job of it in Ay Eufimia on Kefalonia. He fouled the anchor of Dutch sailor and photographer Lies van 't Net, who promptly took this picture… but had to wait until now to get her revenge.

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resistance be sent from Smyrna in Turkey to find and rescue John. And so it was that finally on May 31st, John made his very last journey on Kefalonia, to a small bay just outside the small port of Poros to be rescued by Captain Miltiades Houmas and the crew of the "Evangelistria". The 400-mile return journey took three hazardous days, much of it through enemy waters but on the 2nd of June, John was Jean Baker greeted by the British Consul in Turkey – he was at last a free man.

On his return to England many people, including high ranking Naval Officers disbelieved his story, as John had the reputation of being a great storyteller. It wasn't until 56 years later, and after John's death, that a diving team headed by Kostas Thoctarides found the submarine in 52 metres of water, approximately five kilometres off the Kefalonian coast. Inside the stern compartment it was all as John Capes had described, the discarded rum bottle and three pairs of boots left behind by the into the Davis Submerged Escape sailors that John had tried to help Apparatus. Thankfully, the hatch was escape. undamaged and John helped the he British submarine HMS Perseus, Out of respect for the remains of the sailors out of the submarine through crew still incarcerated aboard Perseus, under the command of Lt. Commander Edward the hatchway then followed himself. nothing was removed from the Nicolay, left Malta on November 24, 1941, on a Aware of the dangers of 'the bends', submarine and it was officially patrol of the Adriatic and Ionian Seas, heading Capes carefully controlled his rise to designated a War Grave. for its home base at Alexandria. On board were the surface but had a close encounter with an There are two memorials to HMS Perseus, the two additional passengers, stoker John Capes, acoustic mine on the way up. Unfortunately, first being a plaque showing the names of the who was returning to his submarine at on reaching the surface in the dark, he was drowned crew, on the wall of the Community Alexandria after dealing with some personal unable to find the three other sailors but Centre in Mavrata. The other monument is matters in Malta and Lt. Nicholaos Merlin, a through the gloom of the night, John was able submariner of the Hellenic Navy, who had been to make out the slightly lighter colour of some above the small bay from where John Capes was rescued. There is a sign on the side of the given special dispensation to observe one of cliffs and so swam towards them. main Skala-Poros road before the road England's newest and biggest submarines and After five hours of swimming, John Capes whose mother's ancestral home was on the eventually washed up exhausted on a sandy bay descends to the port. A track leads through island of Kefalonia. with cliffs looming above pine trees to the monument, the inscription of At 10 p.m. on the 6th of him. Fortunately for him, which reads, "the patriotic islanders who put courage before fear to shelter John H. Capes, December, Perseus was some local men had the sole survivor of the British submarine HMS slicing through the surface spotted his lifeless body 'Perseus', which was hit by a mine and sank on waves, whipped up by strong and went to investigate. winds off the southern tip of Kefalonia at the time was December 6th, 1941 off the coast of Mavrata, Kefalonia".

Kefalonia. It is considered under Italian occupation highly likely that Lt. Merlin and it was under the noses Jean Baker, a former hairdresser and education was in the conning tower of an Italian sentry on the welfare officer from the U.K., lives in a little village peering through his cliff above, that the men near Skala in the south of Kefalonia. She has written binoculars, hoping to catch a moved John to a cave at a booklet entitled Memories of the 1953 Earthquakes, glimpse of his mother's village. Below, John the back of the beach and gave him ouzo and which she sells locally, and is planning another, on Capes was relaxing on his makeshift bed in the dry clothes to keep him warm, having first the Perseus story. stern compartment, with a bottle of rum and re- ascertained John was English and not an Italian Pictures of HMS Perseus and John Capes supplied reading some old letters. Suddenly, an earby and used with the kind permission of the Royal spy. He remained in the cave until the Navy Submarine Museum, Hampshire, U.K. At the splitting explosion violently rocked the following night, when he was moved by museum a visitor can dive into history and go submarine, tossing the crew around their donkey up little-used tracks to a house in onboard submarines and meet a real submariner to quarters and work stations. Perseus had struck nearby Mavrata. hear his stories about living an Italian mine, which cracked the front of the This was the first of many beneath the waves. hull, causing tons of water to flood the front sympathetic Greek people, who The collection includes the compartments and the submarine to nosedive to at great personal risk of execution Royal Navy’s first submarine the bottom of the Ionian Sea, all in a matter of by the Italians if reported by local Holland 1, launched in 1901, seconds. recognised as a marvel of informers, hid John for the next engineering and the only Incredibly, John Capes' rear compartment had 18 months in various homes surviving WW2 submarines not flooded and although injured after being across the island. remaining in the U.K., the thrown against the bulkhead, his first thought Movement between the houses mighty HMS Alliance and was to go and search for other possible was usually at night and often midget submarine, X24. The survivors. He found three badly injured without prior warning, in order to history galleries include crewmen in the carnage of what had been the working periscopes and the avoid suspicion from the Italians engine room and knew that he had to act fast as or local informants. For most of thrilling stories of the heroes the far bulkhead door, which was not properly the time John had to remain inside and was who have served in submarines. For more information, www.submarinesecured and only holding due to the pressure of only allowed out for fresh air at night, away the water on the other side, could give way from prying eyes and possible betrayal. In time museum.co.uk Pictures of the memorials on Kefalonia by David anytime. One by one, he helped the men back he learned Greek from a dictionary and was Evans, also originally from the U.K., who has lived through to his stern compartment, where he had therefore able to converse simply with his on the island for 18 years. www.kefaloniapreviously noticed their only possible means of hosts, as his English accent would have given captured.com escape, an emergency hatch. With the The story of the events of December 6th, 1941 have him away. temperature dropping and the men shivering in Eventually, a message was received at Allied been told in a very well-researched book, HMS the cold air, John remembered the perfect Perseus, Death Escape, produced by Rena Headquarters in Cairo, that a submariner had Giatropoulou and Kostas Thoctarides for the medicine to warm him and the men up, his survived from HMS Perseus and was secretly Prefecture of Kefalonia-Ithaka. rum! After all had had a good slug of the rum, living on Kefalonia. MI9 arranged that a John removed the crew's boots and helped them fishing boat (caique) crewed by Greek

Escape from the deep

T

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“What I reckon happened,” Ian said after determinedly sucking the last from his tin of Mythos “ is that it got picked up by a bird for breakfast and wriggled free just as the bird flew across Sundowner.”

We agreed that that was probably the explanation and settled for supper at Panos Taverna.

The next day the same thing happened. The frog was there glaring at me as I got to the top of the ladder. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, hopping mad.

“It takes me half a day to get up Robin Lamb that blasted ladder of yours… and I’ve just got up there… and what do you do but take me straight back down. Don’t even think about it today.

You don’t know what it’s like being a small frog in a boatyard.” limbing onto Sundowner in the yard in It was true. I didn’t. However, the secret of how he got aboard was revealed. Sticky feet, early April, a small frog greeted me at the top of suckers or something very gecko-like. He the ladder. I wondered how it had got there. It demonstrated sprinting up and down the ladder couldn’t have clambered up the ladder. It was small – not much bigger than my thumb. Had it for my benefit. I offered him a beer.

“Don’t drink,” he told me gruffly. “You’re got onto the boat when we were stern to on a getting us frogs confused with them newts. jetty sometime last season? A blasted rat had so Scum of the earth they are. Don’t deserve to be why not other animals? Noah had the same called amphibians.” I thought of correcting his problem apparently. Had it been living on Sundowner in the yard since we bought the boat English but let it pass.

In the early hours of the following morning, ashore last September? the gas alarm went off waking me and probably The frog was small and not too keen on being caught. It went to ground in my gas locker but I most of the boatyard. I shot out of bed and switched it off. Then it hit me. It was the frog. eventually caught it and carefully took it down That’s why he favoured the gas locker. He was to the long lush grass beneath the boat where I felt sure it would rather be happier. I then went addicted to the stuff and had been tampering. He over to Ian on Cariad to discuss the matter over only favoured my boat because they were a little light refreshment as we are inclined to do French next door and they would catch him and when faced with an imponderable question - the eat his legs and he would have to spend the rest of his life bumming around. mysteries of the universe, whether to go to I’ve just posted a notice with a picture of him Panos Taverna tonight, that sort of thing. in the boatyard:

It’s a frog’s life

C

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE ‘MAD FRED THE FROG’ The public are warned not to approach him directly as he is a known gas addict and could be violent. Contact the authorities and they will arrange for special forces units to apprehend him and frog march him off.

Oh dear I wish I hadn’t put that last bit in.

Nobody will take me seriously.

Robin Lamb sailed in Essex as a teenager through the fifties and early sixties. On leaving University he discovered that sailing was an expensive addiction so did little until the eighties. Retiring in 2008 he and his wife Helen sold their Solent-based Colvic Countess and brought Sundowner, an ex Sail Ionian boat to spend the summers in the Mediterranean. Robin is also writing a book about Sundowner’s trials and tribulations. The first few chapters are at: http://authonomy.com/books/34065/sundowner/

Only for a moment Tom Alsop It was only for a moment I was hanging in mid-air When I stepped toward the dinghy And the dinghy wasn't there !

Thought quickly while descending The outlook's rather grim For pretending I was intending To be going for a swim With long trousers and hat on In my hand a shopping list There was no explanation For the footing I had missed The harbour closed above me Was I going to meet my death Must remember under water That I have to hold my breath Surfaced with a splutter An expletive on my lips Am I getting old for dinghies Perhaps should stick to bigger ships Tom Alsop (S.Y. Magenta) started writing scurrilous verse for a BBC Local Radio Station - Radio Merseyside - and later for Five Live.

“I seem to have covered most of the humorous situations in life and now have gone into retirement from the daily or weekly production.”

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