The world from my window

In church this morning, there are palm crosses hanging from the chandeliers in the church in Agios Magikades. The smiling villager who looks like an old Matt Monro is in good, harmonic form as he chants at the front. At the end of the service, the priest hands out palm crosses and posies, but we don't go up to collect one, having fallen out with him at New Year. (More of this another time. Easter is the time for forgiveness.) We are a little disappointed, as the palm fronds came from our own tree, but there is no good to be had in labouring the point, in case we are snubbed again. We are English and don't want to cause a scene. So we exchange kindly smiles with the village congregation and then head for Corfu Town and the Palm Sunday parade. We park on the road to the market, just as a coach ahead causes a traffic jam when it struggles to pass a car parked on a bend. As we head towards town, we can hear music. And drums. We turn the corner and my cheekbones tingle and

There is a metallic trundling sound coming down our driveway. It is Elias, who has arrived to rotovate a patch of our garden. With all the clearing done and the end of bonfires before May begins, we are ready to cultivate. The previous day, we had asked tentatively if he would be able to do it for us after we spotted him clearing the ground beneath his vines. He is in like a shot and will not take any money for doing it. He has about four words of English: 'good', 'very good' and 'coffee' so, at the end of his session with the Merry Tiller he says all four. After coffee on the terrace, where the Sicilian sweet peas I planted a fortnight ago are romping heavenwards to meet the vine emerging overhead, we stroll up to the kafenion and mini-market and take our pick from all the plants outside, at fifty or sixty cents a pot.     We have watermelon and canteloupe to put in, courgette, three varieties of pepper, white aubergine and black aubergine, red a

With the change in the weather there comes new life. New flowers replace the geranium and daisies. Scabious pop up by the roadside and the purple honesty turns into crimson purses, ready to reveal thirty pieces of silver later in the year. As Greek Easter approaches, the vibrant purplish-pink flowers of the Judas Tree blossom on bare branches before the lime green, kidney-shaped leaves appear. The trees are all over the island, vast swathes of colour in a sea of olive green. This was the type of tree on which Judas Iscariot was said to have hanged himself after denouncing Jesus. According to the legend, the flowers were originally pale and blushed pink with shame. Another version is that the flowers represent Judas's entrails. They certainly are a striking sight. Elsewhere, the wisteria grows so vigorously, it romps up telegraph poles to look like trees. The orange begins to blossom and its heady scent spreads across the roads of the village, mixed with the aroma of m

When we moved into this house on Corfu, the first thing I wanted to know more about was the bookshelf. The house we are renting belongs to the family of a successful author, you see, and I was curious about what books would be in her Corfiot library. Especially when I discovered that, years ago, she lived in the next village to mine in Dorset. Maybe it was an omen. If I sat in her chair on a daily basis between eight thirty and one o'clock in front of my laptop, her writing prowess would rub off. Having said that, when I went up to Mount Olympus last month, armed with pen and notepad with a view to reaching The Plateau of the Muses and the height of inspiration, I was thwarted by bad weather. Mr Grigg and I had to turn back within earshot of the Muses playing snowballs with the gods. Huh, I thought. Another sign. So close and yet so far. However, who can fail to be visited by the muse in this environment? The birds are trilling, the sun is shining, the primary school

As Greek Easter approaches, about as late as this moveable feast can ever be, the island of Corfu becomes busier with the start of the holiday season. There are aeroplanes in the sky and cruise ships in the harbour. At first, the island was slow to wake up to these new visitors, who wandered around forlorn because everything seemed to be closed. But now, there are tables on the pavements outside the tavernas and waiters touting for business. There are irritating and leggy teenage British girls, singing at the Lidl checkout with mother, their shorts so short you can see the cheeks of their bottoms and probably more if you looked a little closer. There are sunburnt families wandering around the resorts, amazed the Greeks are still in thick coats and knee-high boots. There are fake lamb carcasses spinning on spits in the barbecue shop and coaches lining the Spianada . The streets of old Corfu Town become a language hotch-potch, as the tourists wander aimlessly, past the nic