Corfu: the garden isle
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...