I went down to the car deck of the Milos Express ready to get off. There was just me and a German couple waiting disembark at Kimolos. The crew kept asking me where I was going, and checking and rechecking my ticket. I am sure they did not suspect me of fare dodging but wanted to make doubly, triply, quadruply sure that I really did want to get off the ferry at Kimolos. I suspect some passengers must have got off at Kimolos thinking it was Milos.

The books I had read indicated that there was no bus at Kimolos. This surprised me, as the main village (really, a small town) is uphill, and islands with a far smaller population have buses. I expected to have to walk up to Chora. There was no bus. It was a hot day and Chora was a long uphill walk. I did not then realise just how long and straggly Kimolos Chora is.

The German couple also wanted to stay in Chora. Kimolos harbour is larger than some of the island harbours, but from what I had read all the interest was in the Chora. My note showed that there were rooms at taverna Bouharis in the Chora. Before leaving England, I had scanned all the books I could lay my hands on and made notes - the taverna had rooms according to my notes.

"Rooms" said a chap with a pick up truck.

"In Chora?" I asked. "Yes," he said. We jumped in. I do not have that much experience of trucks, but the back of this one dropped down so it was fairly easy to clamber on board. I thought of the islanders' experience of catching fish and how this experience is used to land and net tourists. The rooms are the keep nets. Keep them netted and let them swim back to sea on another ferry. How many shoals of tourists would arrive in the summer months? Would there be enough keep nets or would some sleep on the beaches? How long will it be before Kimolos boats a minibus with the name of the rooms proudly painted on the side?

We bounced along the road and came to a stop half way the port and Chora, outside what was obviously a building with 'rooms' for tourists.

This was not the Chora. "Chora?" I said gesturing uphill. "Chora" he said pointing to the ground. 'No rooms Chora' the Half Way Room Tout said. Well, he would say that, wouldn't he. I thought of the determined room tout in Sikinos. I was determined to prove the Half Way Room Tout wrong. I was determined to find a room in Kimolos Chora. Rather cheekily we left our bags outside the Half Way Rooms and ventured uphill.

In the midday sun, it was a long hot haul even without our luggage. Later I found an old mule track that gave a shorter route from the Chora to the harbour by-passing the Half Way Rooms. On the way up to Chora, I met Estelle, an Englishwoman who had arrived the previous night. She was staying at the Half Way Rooms and did not know if there were any rooms in Chora.

I also spotted the museum, a sign outside said open Tuesday and Saturday 8-12.30, but I was too concerned with finding a room to stop and look in the museum. On Saturday I was to linger outside at various times during the supposed opening hours but the museum never opened.

Kimolos Chora is a maze of a place, designed to confuse pirates. The layout certainly confused these hot and tired tourists. A sprawling Chora, until I got to know the place better I did not know, even with a map and compass, which of the sprawling tentacle of streets I was on.

The locals were all very friendly and said "jassou", even after I passed the same way (unintentionally) several times. The German couple had set out to find a room, as did I, and we were exploring separately but our paths often crossed. I was trying to find the Taverna Bouharis, which I had read, had rooms. There were very few eating or drinking places, or shops. Later I found one or two, but this was now siesta time. I tried to find the main square so that I could orientate myself on the map. I was surprised that I could not find it. Later I realised that I had walked across the main square several times, I just had not realised that it was a main square it looked that insignificant.

Eventually I found the taverna. As I approached, the German man peered grinning out of the door. They had not asked about rooms. Mr Bouharis is an initially gruff but deep down a friendly and helpful man. "Rooms" I asked. No rooms. Were the rooms full? That seemed unlikely as there seemed to be so few tourists about. Was the Bouharis family using the rooms for their own use? That too seemed unlikely. Cannot be bothered? Hardly, as Mr. Bouharis was so helpful. I later found that the taverna had rooms, but they were being renovated. Mr Bouharis gestured me to sit down, and indicated that he would ring someone to ask about rooms. Later he shouted across to us, "Endaxi, OK, rooms. Wait. Someone come." We waited. Klaus and Anna and me.

Most Germans speak English, and usually good English. Klaus and Anna spoke very little English. Anna spoke a little more English than Klaus, although I did suspect that Klaus could speak English but did not to let Anna have a chance to try out her English. I had studied German for two years at school but I had assumed my German had gone. So many Germans speak English that I had not used it for years. I had to dig deep down to find the words I wanted. Anna put her hand down and pulled up. Yes - I had to dig deep within myself.

I studied French for longer at school and spent a month in Paris and six months in Brussels, so my French is better than my German. Even so, I find that even my French is rusty. French I have used - and surprise myself at the vocabulary I find. I know enough to have a good stab at a word (sac à coucher - not used by Molière or Racine). Or I know enough to describe what I want to say. Surprising how often I know the opposite of what I want, 'not closed', I say in German - having forgotten the word for 'open.'

Du and tu. Having spoken with students (albeit long ago) where familiar form was universal -I find I revert to it automatically - yet do not mean to cause offence.

I remember the ‘offensive’ words (Halt das Maul, etc). Again, I hope none of these expressions slips out, uninvited, especially after a glass of wine.

Link with opposites. I was in Austria with a vegetarian. She wanted no more omelettes. I explained 'no meat', with vegetables. Arrived half a chicken. If that was not bad enough, for some reason (never seen chicken served this way before or since) the chicken was served with the rib cage and rest of innards uppermost. Not an appetising sight for a carnivore, let alone a vegetarian. A local rescued us.

Eisenbahn = railway. Einbahn = one way street. When I wanted the station, I should have looked for the Bahnhof. Instead, I followed the 'Einbahn' signs - until the schilling dropped.

I was thirsty and after about ten minutes, I ordered a beer. Mr Bouharis told me that he served food in the evening. I told him we would eat there one night. I did not know where if anywhere else there was to eat in Chora or in Kimolos. The Half Way rooms did not serve food.

Whom were we waiting for? I imagined Half Way Room Tout driving up and whisking us triumphantly back down to his Half Way rooms. What an anti climax to our expedition to find rooms in the Chora. I had hardly started to drink my Amstel when a van pulled up outside. Mr Bouharis gestured that we should go out to the van. I gulped down my Amstel, paid for it, and went outside. All vans look similar to me, but this was a different van. It had no drop down flap at the back. Klaus and the driver (not Half Way Room Tout) helped to haul me on board. If there is a hand on truck side and lift backside up class in the Olympics - I qualify!

Anna sat decorously on the seat next to the driver. The driver set off down the road, turned left, and seemed to twist and turn al lot. Where in Kimolos were we going? This was more like a fairground ride than a ride to accommodation. We passed the last of the houses and were in open countryside. Bouncing along in the back of the truck, we had no idea where we were going, up a long and winding track through fields.

The van pulled in on the forecourt of a large modern house. Taverna Bouharis was at the end of the Chora away from the harbour and these rooms were a lot further away from the harbour. I looked at the sun gleaming down and thought of my rucksack sitting outside the Half Way Rooms. It was going to be a long uphill trek. Still we had beaten Half Way Room Tout. We were not exactly in the Chora. We were beyond the Chora and had an excellent view over the Chora.

The rooms were comfortable and modern with shower and fridge, and outside a large terrace, with another terrace on the level below. Soon I discovered that the water was brownish. If there was mains water in the village it appears not to have reached this far out. There was a pump outside. I looked at the van outside and again thought of my rucksack. I could tell by the gleam in Klaus's eye that he had had the same thought. Mr and Mrs Van Driver (I know my nickname makes them sound Dutch, but they were certainly Greek) were still with us. "Baggage" I said, pointing to the day bag I had carried with me. "Big baggage. Megalo Baggage." I pointed to the half Way Rooms on the map. Mrs Van Driver looked doubtful. "Baggage. Milos?" "No, ochi Milos. (I had to stop to double check that "ochi" meant the opposite of OK, so it meant no). "Baggage Kimolos." Did he think that we had come on a day trip and wanted to stay the night in Kimolos? Perhaps such things did happen. The van driver was willing to fetch our bags and Klaus kindly offered to retrieve mine. Looking back, I realise that if I had gone along, I would have sat in the seat next to the driver, and Klaus would have been in the back. Klaus preferred to go by himself and sit in a seat! At least I was spared any reproachful looks from the Half Way Room Tout. Mr Van Driver gone, Mrs Van Driver was chatting to us. The house was in an exposed position and the wind was getting up. The windows were rattling in the frames. "To bradi meltemi." Tonight strong wind. Was a gale forecast? Why was she taking such an effort to tell us? She seemed determined that we should understand. "To bradi meltemi." Was it going to be such a strong gale that damage was expected? The windows were rattling more than ever. Would it be dangerous to go out? Mrs Van Driver pointed downstairs. Anna looked bemused. I tried to explain in German, but I was not sure what to translate. The drachma was starting to drop. There were tables and chairs on the terrace below. There might be a 'meltemi' (my English spell-checker, rather appropriately, suggests 'mealtime' for 'meltemi') tonight, but what Mrs van Driver was trying to tell us was that there was a bar downstairs. The bar was called the Meltemi. The bar would be open in the evening. "Beer, krasi, eat." Good. Yes? "Yes" I agreed. I hoped that the bar would not be too noisy. A field in the middle of nowhere was an odd choice of position for a bar. I hoped that it was not so way out so that the loud music would not disturb the neighbours - but what about the guests upstairs.

Klaus arrived back with the luggage. My rucksack still carries black sticky tape patching up the wounds it suffered travelling in the back of vans on Kimolos. My bruises and cuts have healed without trace.

Klaus and Anna invited me into their room for tea and biscuits and we swapped notes and information. There next stop was to be (ferry times permitting) Anaphi. They knew Amorgos well, and had been to Kastelorizo. We were all keen on finding unspoilt bits of Greece. Before long we began to wonder if Kimolos was not a little too unspoilt. As Anna said, tourists like to be able to sit out in a bar and be - well just be tourists. There was not much choice on Kimolos. I had come from Ios where there was far too much choice, if dozens of nasty drinking dens can be said to be a choice.

We compared guidebooks. My Thomas Cook guide kept falling open at Kalymnos, where I had been in autumn 1995. I wondered if Klaus and Anna would think that I did not know which island I was on. I thought of the tourist whom I had once seen walking around Cambridge looking at a map of Oxford.

My room was reasonably spacious but was lacking a table. I noticed that in Klaus and Anna's room there was one of those elegant green metal tables that you often see in Greek cafes. I carried one up to my room, together with a couple of matching chairs. Now I could live in style.

Kimolos was delightful. So often I find islands too touristy, but Kimolos was the other extreme. It was several days before I even found a shop selling a map of Kimolos. Then a French woman told me that the grocery in the main square sold them but they were kept under the counter and you had to ask. I did and I bought one. Anna and Klaus had been across to Milos by the small boat and had bought a map on Milos. It was difficult (as with so many Greek maps) to reconcile the two.

There was no shortage of shops on Kimolos, but some of them were so unobtrusive that at first I mistook them for private houses with the door left open. One house near the Bouhouri I had admired, with its white walls, and minimalist decor inside. One day I sneaked a closer look as door was often open. I saw a glass cabinet full of Fanta cans, etc. Either the occupants were fizzy drink addicts, or it is a shop or bar! Another house had a "pantapoleion" sign with the fly screen flung back in the evening to reveal an old-fashioned shop. Kimolos has a larger number of fly screens on doors than any other island I have been to. Strange when there were hardly any flies. The shops were well-stocked grocers, butchers, fruitshops, and bakers. I mostly went to the minimarket near Bouharis taverna. This stocked loose rice and various other dry goods including rigani. Draught rigani! No yogurt though, but Mr Bouharis sold this. I warned Klaus and Anna about the lack of yogurt on Anaphi. I did wonder if they would turn up with a week’s supply of yogurt only to find that the shops on Anaphi had started to cater for the season's tourists and stocked up with yogurt. With all those shops, I thought that I was in for a treat. Mmm! My tastebuds tingled in anticipation. The good food of Kimolos was not to materialise, alas, at least until the last day (a Saturday, when weekending Athenians arrived and were catered for).

My first impression, not dispelled by further exploration, was that Kimolos is a lovely island. I expected the landscape to be marred by mineral workings, but not so. One of the reasons I had delayed coming to Kimolos for so long was the mineral workings. I like roaming over pleasant Greek countryside that I would be unable to do in a pot and pit holed landscape. I thought of the almost lunar landscape of the mineral workings on Milos. I expected to find the same on Kimolos. Not a bit of it. The mineral works were confined to the north east corner of the island. I must admit that I did not explore that corner of the island. Klaus and Anna told me of the beautifully coloured rocks they found on some of the beaches up there, and showed me some yellow coloured stones they had found. I went quite a way in that direction and kept wondering, where is the industrial part of the island? I did not find it, and doubt if any of the island at all was "industrial" in the sense that I understand it.

Mr. Van Driver had not asked for my passport. He and Mrs Van Driver lived downstairs. I discovered the first evening that Mr and Mrs Van Driver do not own the building, but live in the basement and act as caretakers cum general dogsbodies.

Klaus, Anna, and I felt almost duty bound to eat at To Meltemi that first evening. Mrs Van Driver had been so determined that we knew the bar was to be open, and who could it possibly be opening for but us three guests living upstairs? It seemed churlish to refuse the invitation so down we went. No sign or smell of any food being cooked. The chef has not arrived, we gathered. That made sense, if there was no chef there would be no food. With taste buds tingling we waited, and waited. Another chap arrived. He must be the chef. Ah, er, no. This chap spoke English. He was the owner of the establishment. Chef = chief = the boss. Chef did not mean chef. Mr Meltemi explained that there was food. Frozen pizza, frozen chips, frozen beefburger, salad. Was the salad frozen too? No, that was not the sort of meal we had in mind. We thanked him. To be fair he had not seemed that keen to serve us that sort of fare. I was not keen on eating that sort of fare. Frozen food is in theory on a menu in Greece marked as "KAT". That sort of feline menu did not appeal at all. Klaus and Anna and I went are separate ways.

Earlier Estelle had told me that a taverna in the harbour served good food. It was because of this taverna that Estelle was happy to stay at the Half Way Rooms. So I walked down to the harbour. There I found Klaus and Anna hungrily looking at the place that had seemed to be open down there when we arrived. It was shut. It seemed only to be opening when a boat was due. I took Klaus and Anna to the place Estelle had described to me. It was open.

The choice was round fried meatballs or veal in lemon. I had veal in lemon. OK, but seemed to be from pack of frozen slices, not the chunky meaty stew I had been expecting. Saw large list of local specialities - but all 'off' - not enough people eating to make it worth their while putting them on. Klaus and Anna ordered the meatballs. To start with we all had saganaki, the dish of fried cheese. There was a large packet of ready sliced cheese in the fridge, so this is perhaps a long lived offering when there are few customers around. We drank local wine that was decanted from large plastic water type bottles in the fridge. The owners’ young son aged about six served most of the meal. I thought of shops in England where assistants under the age of eighteen are not allowed to serve alcohol. Here the six-year-old opened the fridge door, poured wine from a bottle into a decanter, and served it to us. And what was the harm in his doing so?

After dinner, we called back in Taverna Bouharis uphill to buy some yogurt, and saw a table of locals tucking into meatballs in tomato sauce with chips. I later discovered that the taverna in the harbour is run by the son of Mr Bouharis uphill.

The first afternoon I had been on gentle strolls around the Chora. The first full day I set out to find Paleokastro. This is a Venetian castle and site on a mountain. Trouble was I did not know which mountain. I had many pleasant walks trying to find the site, but never managed to find it. Now if the Earnest Young German had been here I am sure that he could have told me the combination of tree and church at which I needed to turn. Kimolos was larger than I expected. Often when I came to a hill, I was tempted to go over it or round it to see what was on the other side. Then I would come across another hill, and so on and so on until I was more or less lost. One useful feature I did soon discover. On one of the mountains behind the Chora, there was a large square mast. This was easy to spot from afar. Many times when I wondered if I might have become just a little bit lost I would look for this mountain and follow tracks in that general direction until I became oriented again. At times I was walking on dug out lanes wide enough at a pinch and a few scraped sides to take a motor vehicle. These lanes could not have been meant for vehicles, as there was often a narrow stretch of path either end of the wider part, with no obvious track joining in. In other places, the track dwindled down to an old cobbled mule track lined with flowers. In places, the vegetation was so prolific that there was scarcely an inch of path to be seen. Mostly the route of the paths was distinct. Except were they had been bull-dozed away the paths were lined with stone walls on each side as all traditional Greek paths are. In places the cobbles had gone, probably removed for use for building purposes. In other places there appeared never to have been any stones, the bare bedrock doing duty as the path surface.

On none of my walks did I come across anywhere to stop for refreshments so I set out self-contained. There was a taverna or two on the road to Aliki and beyond but the tavernas I noticed were either shut or under renovation. On my way back from my Paleokastro seeking I usually approached Chora down a path past a huge rock lined cistern. The cistern looked as though it was formed out of a natural rock formation and was filled with green scum covered water. Green scum may sound unattractive but glistening in the sun the scum almost looked like green velvet. On one occasion when I passed, a chap was there with his donkey, pouring water into a stone bowl for the donkey to drink.

A few times, I have heard the shout 'Susie'. It is sometimes shouted to a donkey. I have not yet discovered what it means. If I had heard it elsewhere I am sure I would have remembered it so perhaps it is a local Kimolos expression, used something like "whoa" or "gee up".

After a walk, I usually stopped for a beer at To Bouharis. I was pleased to see one little display of honesty. A young Greek boy, aged perhaps eight or nine, trotted into Taverna Bouharis. There was no one on the till at the time. The young lad helped himself to a bag or crisps or similar and dropped his money on top of the till, and trotted out clutching his purchase. Would that happened in England? I doubt it. An English kid of the same age would steal the items and no doubt rob the till to boot. One evening in the minimarket the assistant was on the telephone with her back to the till. A customer left 1500 dr. on the counter for his purchase. The till was wide open. They are all so trusting!

One day two motor bikes passed outside the taverna, travelling in opposite directions. This was such a rare event that all eyes turned towards the motorbikes. Was a boat due, perhaps? This end of Kimolos Chora was out of sight and sound of the harbour and we had no idea of what was going on down there.

A small matter of taverna and kafeneion etiquette. In most places in Greece, there is a kafeneion that is like an old men's club, and another cafe or bar which is open to all. Not that anyone is stopped from going into a kafeneion, the old boys in there usually look so cosily engrossed in their chat that I do not like to disturb them. In Kimolos Chora for much of the time, the only place open for a drink was taverna Bouharis.

In the evening, the village elders, male, huddled round one of the outside tables. All very friendly, but I would have felt out of place sitting amongst them, so I went inside to eat. During the heat of the day a few of these same old chaps would be sitting inside but I would usually sit outside in the sun. I was reminded of ferries where the Greeks invariably sit inside out of the sun and the tourists sit on deck. It was almost as if a sort of village parliament took place outside taverna Bouharis every evening. Sometimes the huddle outside would stay engrossed in conversation for ages. Rarely did I see any drinks being taken out to them. One evening I noticed a Greek man, of an age of those huddled together outside, sitting by himself inside in front of the television. A black and white film was on TV but although he was staring at the screen, he did not seem to be following the film. I wondered why he was not sitting outside with the others. By around nine in the evening the old boys had mostly dispersed. I noticed that Greeks usually came in to eat around nine o'clock.

During the day and later in the evening the elders sat at different tables, and a tourist could have sat there at a different table without feeling out of place.

The second night I ate at Taverna Bouharis. Sitting at my table waiting to be served I noticed a routine. Mrs Bouharis would lead a customer into the kitchen, the usual routine to show the produce available. A few minutes later the tourist would come out of the kitchen, grinning broadly. I noticed that the locals never went through this rigmarole. My turn came. I dutifully trotted into the kitchen to look at the food, and I too came out grinning broadly. There was a huge kitchen with a mass of cooking equipment and workspaces. I looked around for food. There was nothing hot on the hot plates. There was large range of pots and pans but no food in sight, and no smell of food. Mrs Bouharis said 'meat balls'. Chips.' The only choice was with Greek salad or without Greek salad. So we all tucked into our meatballs and chips. Later I thought of Parkinson's law. If work can expand to fit the time available, can food expand to fit the kitchen space available? Down in the harbour on the previous night Klaus and Anna had eaten fried round meatballs. The uphill Bouharis meatballs were sausage shaped and in tomato sauce. I wondered if they were tinned. The shops here were so well stocked. I could understand that Mr Bouharis did not want to buy in food that might not be eaten, but if a customer wanted say a pork chop could he not have nipped across the road to the butchers and bought one? Is there any tradition of bringing your own food to be cooked in Greece, I wondered?

Next night, wanting to eat something other than meatballs, I ate down in the harbour. There was far more choice down there; you just had to look at the menu to see the choice available. My mouth watered particularly when I looked at the list of local specialities, although I did not know what most of them were. The English names were transliterations of the Greek. One of the dishes must be the local version of pizza that I had bought for breakfast one day at the bakery near taverna Bouharis. Now I do not usually eat pizza for breakfast but the shopkeeper had shown me a tray of the stuff and said "Kimolos. Good" so I had to try it. It was bread covered with onion and tomato and perhaps a smidgen of cheese. It was good, but I made a mistake in not eating it straight away. I took it back to my room to eat, by which time it was almost cold and getting hard. Back to the taverna in the harbour. I asked if the local specialities were on. No 'no tourists.' Or at least not enough to make a wide menu worthwhile. Fish? He looked doubtful. One 'tope', he said. I was not sure if his reluctance to sell meant he was doubtful as to the freshness of the fish, (I remembered friend's digestive problems brought on by eating an 'off' squid). Or had he mentally reserved the solitary fish for his own supper?

Back to Kimolos. The prop. pointed to the 'on' items. There were so few that he even included bread and olives in the items he pointed out.

The choice of main dishes was

Fried meat balls

Cumin meat balls

I ordered the cumin meatballs, as they sounded different. You have guessed it - they were long and cooked in tomato sauce. Afterwards I went up to Taverna Bouharis for a Metaxa. I was annoyed to find that the customers were contentedly munching away at large portions of chicken and chips. And I had walked all the way down to the harbour and eaten meatballs! Metaxa was listed on the blackboard of available drinks. On Amorgos much to the amusement of Lefteri I had confused my numbers and asked for a Metaxa theka (10) instead of a Metaxa tria (3). Perhaps two glasses of five star Metaxa make a ten star Metaxa? At Taverna Bouharis, after I had asked for a Metaxa and was still mentally rehearsing the number I wanted to ask for, Mr Bouharis had presented me with a tumblerful of golden liquid. The price was 200 dr. and I worked out from the board that it was "koniak". Whatever sort of local hooch it was, it was very good!

I compared the calm and serenity of Taverna Bouhouris with discos of Ios. On hill between the harbour and the Chora, I saw a concrete block labelled "Disco Kimolos". I am pleased to say it was shut.

I chatted to a couple of middle aged French women. They had been coming to Greece for thirty years, and had adopted Kimolos as their favourite island as it was so unspoilt. They were staying in a house belonging to an old friend who had retired to Kimolos.

Kimolos Chora is very attractive in its own way. Unhomogenised, not prettified. I spotted something different each time I went out. I found the Castro particularly fascinating. It is a pity that so much is crumbling away, but in a way it is more interesting to see it like this. If completely renovated it would not be possible to browse at the falling masonry and see the construction techniques. I hope something can be done to arrest the decay before the structure has gone beyond the point of feasible restoration. A few of the houses were lived in and looked both picturesque and comfortable.

There were so few tourists on Kimolos that new arrivals were instantly recognisable as such. I get so used to greeting everyone I meet on the smaller Greek islands, even on the not so small islands like Naxos when there are few people about. A youngish newly arrived boy and girl were sitting outside Taverna Bouharis and I said "jassas" in my usual way. They stared back blankly as though I was an idiot. One of the taverna ladies was standing in the taverna doorway, waved, and grinned at me enthusiastically. I said earlier that Kimolos is a place to be stayed at and appreciated, not a place for a quick visit. I wondered if this sullen pair had come across from Milos for a day and were feeling bored, as there was nothing for them to do. Few places to eat or drink, no mainstream tourist amusements. Just Kimolos, there to be enjoyed. If they chose to enjoy it.

I get so used to greeting everyone I meet in Greece. Walking down the road to Milopotas on Ios - if there was a road neither I nor my map discovered it - four tourists were coming up the road on motorbikes or scooters. I smiled at them as they approached. The tourists were all male and probably British. In return, I just received sniggers. Oh the lack of civility of British youth.

I hope Mr Bouharis did not think I was an old soak, but there was no where else to go for a drink! As well as my afternoon beer and dinner wine, I sometimes had an early evening ouzo and an after dinner brandy (although I hope I did not drink them all on the same day. If I did, I have forgotten about it!).

Choices, choices. The time for decisions has come, but on what days do the boats leave? Klaus and Anna had a copy of the previous year's timetable. My Thomas Cook guide showed the previous year's times. But with one company bankrupt and some boats accident-damaged, these were not at all reliable. There was no ticket office in the Chora or by the port. I decided the best thing to do was to go down to the harbour on the Saturday when I knew there was a boat in. There would no doubt be a ticket seller and I could enquire about the times of ferries in the direction of Naxos.

One man sold tickets for the Express Paros, another for the Milos Express. The man from Antonis grocery (perhaps he was Antonis) sold tickets for the Milos Express. If I had known, I would have asked him about the times when I was in his shop. There was a ferry to Ios on Saturday afternoon. I bought my ticket. The ferry would arrive at Ios in the late afternoon. I knew that there were always a cluster of ferries from Naxos to Piraeus between ten and midnight. These ferries invariably started out from Santorini and I hoped to pick one up at Ios.

Saturday, and time to leave Kimolos. Klaus and Anna were leaving by the same ferry, heading for Santorini from where they hoped to pick up an Anaphi bound ferry. I had paid for my room the night before I left. Next morning Mr Van Driver's van was conspicuous by its absence. We would have to walk down to the harbour. Even after a few days on Kimolos I was still getting lost in the maze of streets and walked further than I needed to have by taking a few wrong turns. I put my large rucksack down outside the museum. The museum was shut. I sat down for a breather and a read, hoping that someone might turn up and open up. No one did. I took my rucksack down to the harbour, put it on the terrace of a shut taverna (the one where tickets were sold) and went back uphill for a last look around the Chora.

It was harvest time. Many donkeys were walking around piled high with what I think was barley, looking like walking barley (or hay) stacks. My bag was so heavy that I would not have let a donkey carry it, even if one was offered. I was the beast of burden, not a donkey. Even though I had tried to travel light I began to think that I was a donkey for bringing so much, especially after trekking a long distance across Kimolos with my bag, albeit mostly downhill.

I had lunch with Klaus and Anna at the downhill taverna. That Saturday I had noticed a number of smartly dressed people walking around. Not that the inhabitants of Kimolos were scruffy, they dressed in a comfortable island style. These visitors had, I guessed, the Athenian style and were weekend visitors. As more visitors were around there was a wider choice of food at the taverna. We shared a tray of red mullet. Delicious and helped to dispel my image of Kimolos as Meat Ball Island. If I had known the choice of food that was to be available that weekend I might have stayed on Kimolos a little longer. I wondered if Mr Bouharis was also offering a wider repertoire.

Klaus and Anna pointed out to me the small boat on which they had crossed to Milos. There were two boats, one larger one smaller, that did the run, depending on the number of passengers. The largest was perhaps a quarter of the size of the Skopelitis. Anna told me how once they had travelled on that old Amorgos war horse the Skopelitis and nearly everyone had been seasick. All the toilet facilities were overflowing and the Skopelitis was tossing and turning. Even with her limited English, Anna managed to convey a graphic account of the conditions. I suspected that she had told that tale before in English. A child was playing at the water's edge with a small plastic boat. The boat tossed and turned as each wave lapped against the shore. [NB, this was the old Skopelitis, not the present Express Skopelitis]

"The Skopelitis," I said

"Bigger than Skopelitis!" replied Klaus in German.

When I reached the taverna where I had left my rucksack, I found that it was open and functioning. My rucksack was where I left it. A non-paying customer. I half expected to see it served with a drink, taking up taverna table space as it was. The Kimolosites are not grasping, not even Half Way Room Tout. He was down in the harbour waiting for the ferry and grinned at me. No ill feeling that we had got away. I noticed that he drove his van back uphill sometime before the ferry docked. He must have got a message that there were no tourists getting off.

Other islands in the Cyclades relied mainly on farming and fishing before tourism. Kimolos and Milos had mines. I pondered on the lukewarm reception in Kimolos to tourists. Not that everyone was anything but welcoming, but I got the impression that the island was getting along very nicely without tourism, thank you very much, and did not want their island to go the way of other islands such as Ios to where I was heading back.

Susan Watkin

swatkinwebpages@amorgos.freeserve.co.uk