The world from my window

On Christmas morning in Agios Magikades, the church bells clang at just after seven thirty and then again at nine. A little old man with a wizened face and a young man with an enormous moustache ring the bells outside. The younger man is joined by his son, who takes hold of the rope and goes up with it, several times. We follow two smartly dressed people from the platia in through the north door. The service has already been going for at least an hour. The church is full, men at the front, singing responses to the litany as the white-and-gold-robed priest stands the other side of the iconostasis in front of the holy table. He has his back to us but we see and hear him through the central door, known in the Eastern Orthodox tradition as the beautiful gates. Two small children run up and down the aisle, a boy with gelled hair and a girl with a new Barbie doll. A woman puts a euro in the box, pulls out a candle and lights it. The air conditioning units blast ou...

After a hairy few minutes wrestling with the world's smallest turkey, the creature has been stuffed, trussed up and put in the oven. If there is such a thing as the runt of the flock, then we've got it. It was the turkey at the back, the one that came last when the birds scurried across the village road to avoid a passing scooter rider with a grown-out Mohican haircut. It was the cougher, the wheezer, pigeon rather than barrel chested and if it could speak it would have had a high-pitched voice like the comedian Joe Pasquale. Still, with Delia's chestnut and apple stuffing and an assortment of vegetables around it, Lefteris the turkey might just make the grade. It cost an arm and a leg, so it had better be good. No wonder villagers call Spiros the turkey man the Roman Abramovich of Kerkyra. We are having our Christmas meal this evening, a break with tradition but we wanted to get on up to the village square tomorrow where, for our favourite taverna and kafenion, it...

In the village platia, the postman arrives in his white van. He takes a large parcel and a briefcase full of mail to the kafenion. A dog I would like to adopt but Mr Grigg forbids it (collective boo and hiss, please) pads up to us, as we sit outside the kafenion, and poses for a photo. But he blows his chances of a foster home by scratching for fleas on his hindquarters. Bug-eyed cat stares as we drink our coffee.  The old man at the next table is devoid of teeth but his walking stick looks capable of giving a nasty bite. He lashes out at the dog, which takes a shine to anyone who slides a glance his way. The animal is too young to distinguish between friend and foe and gives everyone a chance. The old man's stick fails to make contact, as he knew it wouldn't, and the dog jogs on. We have a ringside seat as the postman ambles out of the kafenion towards the mailboxes in the wall of the building opposite.  He posts the envelopes in the various slots and ...

When the young Gerald Durrell and his family moved to Corfu in 1935, it didn’t take him long to get to grips with the local wildlife. It absorbed him so much, the boy grew up to make a career of it. Not only did he write My Family and Other Animals , he also founded Jersey Zoo and became a champion of the underdog. Two months into our Big Fat Greek Gap Year, and I have also become very close to the local wildlife of this beautiful island. I’ve been stabbed by a palm spike, bleeding like a stuck-pig and stung by a jellyfish. To top it all, a noisy family of edible dormice has moved into the attic. Bless them, they’re nocturnal so think nothing of starting a game of acorn billiards just as Mr Grigg and I are about to nod off. We’ve witnessed the conception of a litter of puppies while trying to eat a stifado outside one of the village tavernas, been woken by the sound of dogs, geese and turkeys every morning and been adopted by a ginger cat who thanks us for a cha...

Outside the Church of St Spyridon, it is standing room only. The devoted and curious push their way in to see and hear and smell the splendour of the service in the golden, candelit interior. Nearly all the shops and businesses are closed as islanders mark St Spyridon's Day, when Corfu's patron sain t is celebrated and Spiros and Spirodoulas across Greece enjoy name-day parties and buy drinks for all their friends. It is a special day too for the small gift shops next to the church where the saint's relics are kept in a highly decorated casket. They are busy selling candles and icons and worry beads. Stalls nearby, manned by minor holy men, receive a steady trickle of customers while the doughnuts stands do a roaring trade. At the main entrance to the church, a beautiful beggar woman and her two children are handed bread torn off from rolls given to the congregation. The children gorge on plastic cups filled with pine nuts, sultanas, walnuts, sesame s...

Back in the UK from Corfu for a week and it’s like we’ve never been away. Mrs Bancroft mans the stocking filler stall at the Christmas bazaar in Lush Places village hall and the Parson’s Daughter, in Santa hat and baubles, reaches across and gives me a hug. ‘It’s so nice to see you,’ says Night Nurse, as the Loveliest Lady in the Village comes along and gives me a playful prod in the back. Mrs Champagne-Charlie is the most wonderful hostess while her husband is on a big game hunt in the Black Forest (despite the jolly music, you honestly should never take a walk there). He is cross he has completely missed our grand homecoming. But there are cuddles galore from Pelly and Anakin Sheepwash, Mr Loggins and his wife, Darling, Nobby Odd-Job and then a fleeting visit from Mr Putter and the fragrant Mrs Putter, who still manages to smell fragrant even after a long-haul flight from Florida. I just want to bury my face in her neck and hair. There is a card through the letter box from Ca...