The world from my window

After sorting out paperwork to do with the house we are renting for twelve months in Corfu and hiding from rainstorms in the Ionian, I'm now back in Blighty surrounded by packing cases and boxes. Who would have thought anyone could accumulate so much stuff? Apologies for not blogging for a while but it's been absolutely manic. The good news is Mr Grigg and I have found a great home for our two dogs, just over the hill in the next town. And the cats have been farmed out to one of my sisters in the Birthplace of Powered Fight. All we need is a tenant for our house and we can feel a bit more relaxed about our Big Fat Greek Gap Year. In the meantime, the October issue of The Ionian Magazine is out and I'm in it, on page seven. That's about it. Love Maddie x

The fisherman sings as his boat swings into the small bay at Polis, Ithaca. His chugging boat is laden with a good catch. Mr Grigg washes down the decks as I prepare breakfast of fruit, yoghurt and honey. There is a tinkling of bells as the goats wander down to the water's edge to nibble on seaweed. The sun has taken a long time to rise above the steep slope to our port side. But the water is nice and warm. And the fish - those that have evaded the fisherman's net - swirl and swish their silvery sides, back and forth, back and forth. Polis is a magical place. Here in a cave - its roof collapsed now following an earthquake - twelve geometric tripods, similar to those described in the Odyssey,  were once found, along with terracotta masks dedicated to Homer's hero. A trip to the archaeological museum at Stavros beckons, along with lunch at the garden restaurant, Polyphemus. If the Ithaca of Odysseus really existed, then surely this must be it. That's about ...

At the Corfu tax office, the staff are dressed in polo shirts, jeans and trainers. A ticket machine spews out a piece of paper with a number on it and we wait in turn, as if we are standing at the deli counter at Morrisons for two Scotch eggs and four slices of ham. A young man with the chiselled face of an ancient Greek shuffles large bundles of paper very loudly, making his presence felt in a hubbub of voices in a foreign tongue. And then, after ten minutes, we are at the front of the queue. A few signatures, lots of stamping and we're done. We emerge from the tax office, a five-storey, grubby building faced with light grey marble, air conditioning units outside every window. Teenage boys use the front courtyard as a skateboard ramp and a melange of mopeds and scooters are parked against a low wall. We take in the hustle and bustle around us - with a tax number we are now part of this, after all - and it begins to rain. And rain and rain and rain. And there's me weari...

And so the countdown really begins as we start to pack up, throw out and generally sort through the house. With gifts of English provisions such as Jacobs Cream Crackers and Marmite from Darling Loggins, Manuka honey hand cream from Pelly Sheepwash and four pairs of silky and lacy knickers from the fragrant Mrs Putter (what was she thinking of?), I am almost ready for my Big Fat Greek Gap Year. But tonight we celebrate The Enchanted Village and its special people, the people who worked for weeks to put on four fun-filled days over the Diamond Jubilee weekend. It is our annual thank you party and people have brought enough loaves and fishes to feed the five thousand.  There is dancing to The Macarena and Cha-Cha Slide , led by Randy Munchkin and The Loveliest Lady in the Village. And then there is a lull when my iPod freezes on Born to Be Wild , giving Mr Loggins the chance to step in and say a few words. 'We're going to miss you two,' he says. 'But if anyon...

Bless me father, for I haven't blogged. There's been so much going on in my life, I don't know if I'm coming or going. I fully expect to charge round the corner and meet myself coming the other way. The cats have been safely despatched, but not in a bad sense. They're now living with my sister, spending a week indoors before being allowed out to explore. It will also give them the chance to big up a bit, considering they have gone to The Birthplace of Powered Fight, where the streets are paved with broken glass. But they are happy. The girl cat actually kissed her brother, which is unheard of. He was last seen behind my sister's sofa, quaking in his seven league boots. Toughen up, little one. You could be mistaken for the  Lion of Somerset . Well, perhaps not. Meanwhile, the hunt for new homes for the dogs goes on apace. Will we be sorted by the time we leave the country for Corfu in a few weeks' time? I hope so. Because I'm looking forwar...

Well, there's lots to sort out and lots to do before Mr Grigg and I head off for our Big Fat Greek Gap Year. One of my sisters is having the cats, my brother is having the car but I've still got to find a home for the two dogs. Meanwhile, one of my colleagues is so dismayed at me leaving ( so she says ) she's found a job in the middle of a war zone. I kid you not. I think an exchange of emails from our locations - me with a G&T by the pool and she with her tin hat on - could be the basis of an interesting book. I know where I'd rather be. Back at home, the bunting is still up, but not for much longer. We've had the Queen's Diamond Jubilee, the Olympics and now the Paralympics. It's all going to look very bare when the flags come down. But we do have the thermometer, which shows us at the level the village shop fund has now reached. It's at £20,000 and only £10,000 to go before opening time in October, when we will be long gone. This weeken...

It's a sunny evening, down at the Bay. There are boats pootling around the calm waters and fishing tourists are out in force with rods and lines on the piers. Out at sea, the mackerel aren't biting. And the fish and chip kiosks have run out of fish (oh, I wish they'd tell you that before you start queuing). The next day, the slipway is closed. It's too rough to launch. And the white horses gallop across the water. The dive boat comes back and a female passenger says: 'Never again.' Today, the fresh fish supplier drives up and down the kiosks, to see if they want more cod. The kiosk owners are biting. They don't want another evening where they run out of fish. (Oh, I wish they'd tell you that before you start queuing). A gull dive-bombs the harbour as the sprats do a pepper-pot dance just beneath the surface. It pulls out a mackerel and is jumped by five other gangster gulls wearing holsters and knuckle dusters. It gulps down the mackerel ...