A plumbing cri de coeur

Diafani diary 5. I’ve never made much of a fist of plumbing, possibly because I’ve only dabbled. Faced with repairs or small projects the temptation has been to renounce solder and opt for compression joints called olives, often with disappointing results.

Meditating in our Diafani bathroom I noticed a variant to what I regard – though I may just have been horribly unobservant – as traditional plumbing. Copper piping had been replaced by flexible tubes sheathed in wire mesh and equipped at each end with fittings resembling those used in high-pressure hydraulics and pneumatics.

One advantage is obvious: no need shape the piping. Attaching the fittings is another matter. I assume special equipment is needed – OK if you’re putting in a whole new bathroom, less so when attaching an outdoor tap for the garden hose.

I could Google this. And, if I were prepared to expose myself to public humiliation, I could ask for clarification on a DIY chat service I’ve used for slightly more technical matters. But there is another option.

It’s clear several respondents to Works Well are better qualified than me to run this blog. Also they dispense their wisdom more gently than web-bound DIY maintenance experts. So here I am again, cap in hand. What is the status of this plumbing development?

Mystery solved. A hundred metres out from Venanda beach (qv) there is a clear sandy area of sea bottom about 3 m below the surface. On it, spelt out in stones that must each have weighed 2 kg, is the word ALPNOE. The O has a stone in the middle. Locals were mystified. Googled it is something to do with free diving in Austria. Gotcha!

Atomic clocks not much use here

The ferry arrived at 7.10 pm.

BB leaves Venanda beach apparently towed by his visibility float. Note orange tee-shirt

Diafani diary 4. Diafani’s only public clockface is on the church tower. Two sides were visible from our hotel window, both told different times and both had been stopped for three years to my knowledge. But then who goes to a Greek island to clockwatch?

Yes, but… You leave Diafani by ferry which arrives at 5.35 on a Saturday evening. That’s what the ferry company’s website says and that’s what the printed schedule – which I picked up on the incoming ferry – says. Except that it doesn’t. Diafanians shrug and say “about seven”. Demanding greater certainty, I am recommended by Tony of La Gorgona restaurant, to keep an eye on the southern headland. “When the ferry shows there you’ll know it’s coming.”

Greek time. Nikos’s boat leaves for a trip to the island of Saria at 10 am. “Is that 10 am Greek time Nikos?” I ask. And Nikos roars with laughter but fails to confirm or deny.

Dr Blagojević’s husband, Dr Miodrag Vujošević (Misa for short), is an economist and spatial/environmental planner, and we chat as we pass on the street. In response to my “Greek time” he cites “Greek calendar” which, alas, I am never able to follow up with him. But it makes sense. Change of seasons means more on Diafani than the flow of hours. Many people leave the village during its unrewarding winter for work on Rhodes or in Baltimore, Md.

That's why when I tell someone I’ve knocked a couple of minutes off my best swim time down to Venanda beach they’re much more interested that I did it wearing an orange tee-shirt (“He swims in his clothes”). To protect my shoulders from sunburn, if you must know.

Hellenophilia came too late

Diafani diary 3. Language. Not exactly a technology but a mechanism which links humans and is second in importance only to the act of reproduction. Despite the problems different languages impose most of us would confirm the right of all countries, races and ethnic groups to speak their language of choice. Which is why Esperanto eventually turned out to be deader than Latin.

On the other hand there are the tongues which don’t employ an immediately recognisable alphabet. Take Greek.

For Anglo novices Greek has three tiers. In the first, triangles and toasting forks predominate. In the second these visual obscurities are rendered anglo-phonetically (stolee katadheeres). In the third tier we emerge into the sunlit uplands of what we know (= wetsuit).

The linguistic links with English are often distant, as above. But occasionally they are childishly simple. Speak sandoeets out loud and its meaning becomes clear – sandwich. Tost is even closer. Other words throw out seductive hints. Ask for the bill and the word logariasmos resurrects all sorts of academic memories.

I have arrived at Greek far too late in life. I have a 2% chance of making myself understood in German, a 27% chance in France and a 41% chance in the USA. My English comes and goes. Greek must be regarded as a lost cause and this must be its last reference on this blog. For Greek is dangerous. If there’d been a fire on September 20 at the airport at Rhodes (Rodos, an easy one) on our journey home we really couldn’t have wasted time pondering the significance of ΕΞΟΔΟΣ when its English equivalent, EXIT, sounds close enough to Greek anyway.

Inside is what counts

Diafani diary 2. Other than the sea, the arid surrounding mountains and (by far the most important) the people, Diafani lacks facilities. It is definitely not a resort. Yet visitors return.

One welcome returner was Dr Ljiljana Blagojević, associate professor with Belgrade University’s architecture faculty, who lived in London for eight years. This year I asked her for examples of good modern architecture I might be familiar with.

Her first – and immediate – choice was the Festival Hall. What a pity RFH is so close to the ugly National Theatre, I said. Oh no, the NT is also well-designed.

Then I realised that unlike most architects Dr Blagojević was talking internals rather than externals and evoking Le Corbusier’s “machine for living” or its variant “machine for enjoying leisure activities”. This recalled my Wisteria Paradox - the disparity between time spent looking at and (we hope!) admiring the outside of our houses compared with the time spent using and appreciating their inner features.

A disparity born out of a visit to a friend’s 400-year-old Wiltshire cottage: beautiful to look at outside but a nightmare of electrical compromises from installing wiring systems on and around impenetrable walls a metre thick.

Our present house is ten years old and its appearance is functional (see inset). Yet it is the most comfortable and practical home we have occupied. It could look nicer but I feel sure we’d pay a price for this inside. Not something we’d willingly accept.

Nations united by footwear

Diafani diary 1. Technology at its lowest – and it failed. Carrying fins, mask and snorkel I saw the strap had broken on one of my flip-flops which I need to cross stony beaches. My feet, cossetted by a decade of wearing trainers, are now as soft as a baby’s bottom. No solution in Diafani: the general store sells bottles of Scotch, postcards and detergent.

Outside a bar six healthy young people were loading up two rental cars, suggesting they would shortly be off to some location with wider retail potential. At my wife’s suggestion I offered a proposition. If anyone was prepared to sell me flip-flops I would hand over sufficient cash to pay for the most luxurious replacement pair.

This generated much good humour. Broken straps on flip-flop are universal. One young women was wearing an odd pair, one – in pink, decorated with a plastic flower. Not my style but, as my grannie used to say, needs must when the devil drives. I was asked if I was in the habit of clothing myself this way. I said I depended heavily on the kindness of strangers and the allusion was picked up.

Finally Ronel Spies, key account manager with Mix Telematics Mobile Information Exchange of Stellenbosch, SA, (I have her card) kicked off her flips and handed them over. My cash was refused. The only payment was that I photograph the footwear in situ and post the result. Which I do (the new acquisition is on the left) grateful for her generosity and for ten minutes of lively, laughing conversation.

Note 1: The face apparently covered in cotton wool is mine. There is no way this post would be enhanced by the reality the bogus mask conceals.

Note 2. The monk seal (see August 31) did not materialise.

What would David Attenborough do?

Diafani is technology-poor; you have to take your own. These are some of the things that will shortly go into the suitcase.

When I chose the flippers, snorkel and mask some years ago, like most men I opted for subfusc colours. But the diving shop man recommended day-glo. Just in case things fell into the sea unattached.

One thing is missing and is problematic: a weapon. My normal swim is about a mile down the coast to a lonely inlet. I am told a monk seal now occupies a cave along the route. There is, my informant says, no record of monk seals attacking humans but I am urged to check with Gorgos, fount of all marine knowledge. Given its name I conclude the animal is at least celibate. I would prefer to go unarmed if possible.

The inflatable ring is from the Chad Valley “Giggle and Grow” system for users aged 2 – 6 years and was reduced to £1 in Woolies. It will be attached to my waist with 12 m of light nylon rope and will remind boat users that their engine propellors are harder than my flesh.

Bonelli eagles operate over Diafani, hence the binocs. The Creative Zen MP3 player carries over a thousand tracks varying in length from “Big Yellow Taxi” to the fourth movement of Bruckner’s Romantic symphony (22 min 54 sec). For re-reading I am taking a novel by a Frenchman famous for his long sentences and whose name I am becoming less and less inclined to flaunt.

Rawlplugs and curried eggs

While waiting for my wife to retire I did freelance journalism and cooked five Monday - Friday evening meals a week. But not the cooking Plutarch and Lucy regale their readers with. No touch-of-oregano moments. This was deterministic, alles im Ordnung cuisine run on DIY rules.

I created a repertoire: fourteen dishes in sequence so we ate each twice a month. For two years! Rule two: no deviation from the recipe. My wife made a casual suggestion for soup (two leeks, two carrots, two sticks of celery, stock from two Maggi Pot au Feu cubes, heated, blended) and that became the immutable – and only – prescription. A dangerous tactic since those stock cubes were only available in France at the time.

I ran into trouble. In converting a roux into white sauce I risked a nervous breakdown – every time. The possibility of lumps was the spectral equivalent of Original Sin. As a result my first four lasagnes were short of the interstitial white stuff. “Make more than you could ever imagine using,” I told myself even though it deviated from what was written.

The corned-beef hash called for allspice, a name that worried me. Was “all” everything or just one? An honour system required me to eschew curry powder and mix turmeric with all the rest. With widely varying results.

Just before my wife resumed her rightful position I added undesignated shrimps to the mashed potato of the fish pie. My only bid for improvisation. I am now retired twice over.

Patrons late in life

If assuming a mortgage is an intimation of mortality (see "Welcome to the fall-off rule"), paying a mortgage off is uncharted territory. In our case, it meant having the resources to buy original art. Beyond that is the even more esoteric experience of commissioning original art.

This ciment fondue piece represents two of our grandchildren twelve years ago and I apologise for the ropy photo. I tried hard with the Aldi cheapo and all were duds. I should have dusted off the Pentax and fiddled with the aperture/depth-of-field ratios. But blogging discourages patience.

However it’s the technological procedures I’m interested in. The children ran riot in the sculptor’s garden and a huge number of 35 mm shots were taken. Despite the mound of prints the final choice – this sinuously interwoven pose – announced itself. We had only one request. My wife and I detest sentimentality and asked that the work should be non-representational.

Luckily the sculptor knew better. Some weeks later at her studio we were left alone to contemplate two 10 cm high maquettes. One was a précis of the linked shapes, the other was demonstrably the children. Not a hint of mawkishness; we chose the latter. Knowing the sculptor as we did (and do) perhaps it was wrong to make even that one request.

We had intended to install the work in our garden but our growing affection for it and the fact that our Kingston-on-Thames house (12 miles SW of London) had been burgled four times meant it has stayed indoors ever since.