Swallows

The swallows have arrived!

Which is a little confusing.

A week or so ago, I became aware that I had not seen any swallows for a few days and realised that they had left for their long trip to sub-Saharan Africa. Mentally, I wished them ‘kalo taxidi’ and looked forward to seeing them next year when a pair or two might actually nest on the little shelves we have provided.

And then, yesterday, a flock of swallows came swooping around the house.

Clearly, these were not the birds that had spent the summer here, but had nested further north perhaps in Denmark, Sweden, Belarus or Estonia - where the barn swallow is the national bird, curiously enough.

I wondered what they had seen as they skimmed their way south and what other sights they would encounter on their long journey to South Africa.

Which got me thinking about our other ‘swallows’. In the village of Glossa where we live, there are quite a few houses which are only occupied in the summer. Mostly these belong to people who grew up here but moved to the mainland for work, marriage and to raise a family.

There is still a strong tradition that when a girl from Glossa marries, her parents give her a house. Sometimes it is auntie’s or granny’s old house passed down through the family and renovated for its new owners. Occasionally it is newly built on one of the remaining tiny plots of village land sandwiched between two older houses – land which may have been the subject of years of on-off negotiation.

Every summer, these houses spring back to life. The parents, cousins or grandparents left behind and permanently resident here, start preparing for the annual return of the exiles. First you notice the cleaning and airing going on. It is a time to be nimble as balconies are cleaned with seemingly dozens of buckets of water slooshed down to cascade on the unwary pedestrian below.

Those of us who live here all year round – ‘summer-winter’ – as they say, attract a certain kudos and there is a mutual respect among those who remain in the quietest time of the year. Of course this apparent toughness of the marooned is all a false construct.

Certainly there are storms which sometimes cut off the electricity for a few hours at a time – so we have plenty of gas lamps and stoves and a good stock of firewood. It is true that travel plans can be disrupted if the Flying Dolphin finds the sea too rough to handle – but modern weather forecasting allows us to leave earlier or later for our shopping trip to Volos or concert trip to Thessaloniki. And if that load of bricks and cement is delayed, there is always ‘avrio’ – tomorrow.

‘Avrio’ is a frequently heard word here and it has some similarity to the Spanish ‘mañana’ although without the burning sense of urgency of its Spanish counterpart.

No, we summer-winter Glossa residents enjoy a short and mild winter and all the joys of the  blossoms and wild flowers in early spring. We also enjoy catching up with all our friends who were busy in the summer. And it is true that we enjoy being thought of as the tough summer-winter island folk – just don’t tell anyone that we have the best end of the bargain.

So, once the houses are cleaned for the summer visitors, they start to arrive – a few at a time to begin with and then a flood. The streets ring with the sound of “kalos ilthate” – welcome. In Greek this literally means, ‘good that you came’ and the traditional reply is, ‘good that I found you’.

We have nicknamed these annual returners ‘swallows’ like their feathered counterparts and they are anticipated and welcomed in the same way. Now we have been here six years, we recognise individuals and families – and they way they have changed. Of course, it is mainly the children you notice. 

Hair ruffled, cheeks pinched, picked up and passed around they are re-assimilated into the collective consciousness of the village.

The toddlers have become kids (ough, too big to pick up now), the babies have become toddlers (arms aloft to join the ritual) and here and there is a baby starting its first summer in Glossa.

The noisy cat-chasing lad with the skinned knees has become quieter, more watchful and slightly self-conscious of his breaking voice – but handsome and so tall, says grandma! The girl, only so recently proudly showing off her new holiday dolly to the village children, is gaggling and sharing secrets with the other girls – each with a phone in hand – whilst glancing sideways at the boys.

And so the world turns. Like the heights inked on the back of our pantry door when I was a boy myself, this annual tide leaves its mark. Piles of pebbles lovingly gathered from the beach and reluctantly left behind, the lilo that won’t be going home to Larissa and the memory of a summer when your nose just reached the balcony rail. Here and gone.

Back to the mainland to their real lives they go. And I find myself wondering which of these lives are their real one? The summer or the winter? For the swallow of the bird variety, is the real life the summer of laying eggs and raising young or the other summer of building strength for the next big migration? Or is it all part of a perfect whole?

Today the flying swallows have gone again, refuelled and on their way via Syria or Egypt and other places I will never visit, to cross the desert and head home to the lush grassland. Living a life entirely without winter, these summer-summer birds.

Let’s talk.