The world from my window

It’s Mr Grigg’s birthday and we’re on a quay at Nidri, Lefkada, while an engineer fixes the alternator on our boat, Nestor. I can think of worse places to be. An imposing figure towers large on the quayside, just outside Nik the Greek’s, his jacket hung nonchalantly over his shoulder. Through his big glasses he sees everything. He gazes out to the small island of Skorpios. He runs his eyes along the ridge to the flat-topped bit on the left, his helipad. Skorpios looking towards Nidri and Lefkada It is not Mr Grigg who is looming over Nidri like some benign giant.  It is the statue of Aristotle Onassis, the man who it is said never spent the night on his island but preferred to sleep aboard the yacht Christina anchored by the seashore in the clear waters of the Ionian. These days he is buried here, along with his son, Alexander, and daughter, Christina. This was the shipping magnate loved by the local population and the man who brought Jackie Kennedy

It's getting hotter in Corfu now, with temperatures soaring. For Mr Grigg's birthday next week, we're looking at ninety six degrees. The seventies tabloid moniker 'Cor-phew' is right on the button. Swallows and swifts dive into the water, the cicadas chirrup and the white tourists from the cruise ships are getting redder. Time to dive into the grounds of Mon Repos , the birthplace of  the Duke of Edinburgh. It's a shady spot, with plenty of cover.   The mansion could do with a bit of tender, loving care, really, and the inside is a bit of a museum mish-mash. The Brits and Americans probably wonder why Prince Philip hardly gets a mention, with the building playing host to various exhibitions, none of which relates to HRH. But the prince was only eighteen months old when the Greek royal family was exiled on 3 December 1922. Hardly time to get to know the place. But with the island's archaeological museum closed until 2015 for renovation, it&

A high wind whips through the trees as the children prepare for the end of term show. The stage is set up outside on the gravelled playground and it's blowing a hooley. The mothers and fathers, aunties and uncles and grandparents are huddled around tables, waiting for the concert to begin. A group of six-year-olds, the boys dressed as ancient Greek soldiers and the girls in classical-style, white dresses, each with one shoulder bared, come on to the stage, egged on by their glamorous teacher in heels as high as the mountain that overlooks the village. There is a stage backdrop depicting the rocky outcrop of the Athenian Acropolis and the Parthenon. The children act, they dance and they sing as the women go on strike and withdraw their labour as a protest at their husbands being away at war. With Greek music, extracts from the sassy and laid-back theme tune to The Pink Panther and a disco ballad, the girls take the higher moral ground and refuse to co-operate unless the

There is a place near my Dorset home of Lush Places where the fairies live. I've blogged about it before but I am not going to say where it is because these things are enjoyed best when they are exclusive and magical and not advertised to the world and his wife. This is not Disney, it's Dorset. It is a lovely spot, with dozens of fairy doors to be found at the foot of sturdy trees. And when you open a door, there are often things left behind for the little people. This sprang to my mind last week when I was introduced to the world of Geocaching . According to the website this is a treasure hunting game where you use a smartphone or GPS to hide and seek containers. The containers can be all shapes and sizes and concealed behind rocks, on posts or ingeniously inserted into hollowed-out pine cones. Once you find the geocache, you can sign the logbook and see if the last person to find the hidden container  has left anything behind. If you take it, you need to leave some

A Year in Lush Places: Tales from England's Rural Underbelly is now available on Kindle , published by The Bridport Press. It comes out, appropriately, on the eve of Lush Places fun weekend and, as my blog readers will know, the Dorset village where I lived before moving to Corfu for twelve months is the epitome of fun. And weird. A work of fiction, it is inspired by and taken from the blog, so much of it will be familiar to you. But read on, there is a twist at the end. It's set in 2010, when  The World from my Window  became a  Blog of Note . The novella charts the highs and lows of a Dorset village and a nagging case of misunderstanding, which is resolved on New Year's Eve at a Wild West showdown. For those of you have been with me along the way, thanks for your support. It's not exactly Pulitzer Prize, more Pullet Surprise, but it will certainly make you think twice before eating a pasty. The paperback version will be available in a couple of weeks'