Homecoming

          Travelling – or being elsewhere, as I prefer to think of it – can be an eye-opener. Ten days ago, I was standing on the Pnyx, the hillside in Athens that was the meeting place of one of the world’s earliest known democratic legislatures, a platform where citizens gathered to hear and express opinions. Now I’m back at home, reading that the U.N. special rapporteur has just condemned Britain’s recent legislation to stifle peaceful protest as “draconian” – after the eponymous Draco, the ancient Greek lawmaker whose unduly harsh penal code led to his being overthrown by outraged citizens. Similarly outraged, I propose that it’s time for some of the sitting members of the ‘Mother of Parliaments” to travel to Athens for a refresher course in democracy.

          Of course, ‘being elsewhere doesn’t necessarily guarantee a constant stream of enlightening moments or delightfully different experiences (the four-hour hold-up on the train from Bari to Milan was as humdrum as it gets), but there’s more scope for serendipity if we step outside our cocoons. Admitted, there are risks, but that’s what travel insurance is for (though trauma caused by exposure to the ways of foreigners is not covered). And, with just a little boldness, we can have meaningful conversations with people we would otherwise never meet, like Pierre from Brittany, for example. Although he has very little money, he had gone to Athens to take care of a troubled friend. He was making his way home via the ferry to Bari, sleeping on the banquettes in the lounge and carrying his life-support system in an enormous backpack. In bygone days, he might have been labelled a hippie, but he seemed to me a man of conviction, doing his best to fight inequality, injustice and the excesses of our capitalist economy. We also met a Korean woman, Su, a special needs teacher on a solo cultural tour and I asked her whether she would rather have a companion with whom to share the experience. She said that, while she enjoyed our fleeting company, she was generally content to be alone. We all conversed in English, though Su had to resort on occasion to the Google Translate app. (If you have it, translate the word “Pnyx” into Greek and listen to the pronunciation. You will get an idea of how perplexing the Greek language is.)

          The weather both here and in Athens has been unseasonably warm of late, but we got home during a winter-affirming cold snap. I like cold snaps, but the battery in the campervan does not. Despite being connected to a solar-powered trickle-charger for six weeks, it did not respond to a turn of the key, so I called out the rescue service. The man who turned up, Paul, was a bit grumpy, so I tried to engage with him personally, sympathising when he told me that that it was so cold on the previous job that he’d lost the feeling in his fingers and skinned his knuckles on an engine block while trying to loosen a corroded nut. What’s more, his arthritis had flared up. My approach worked and he warmed to conversation, even sharing details of his marriage, imminent retirement and plan to buy a holiday home in Greece. As for my battery, it had died, peacefully, in its sleep, of old age. No amount of trickle-charging could have prevented it, so I had no option but to replace it. Now, it so happened that Paul had a new one in his van and, though we both knew I could buy it cheaper if I were to shop around, I was without transport and disinclined to spend all day in pursuit of saving a few quid.

          By the time he had finished, Paul had cheered up considerably. He even reached out his arthritic, knuckle-skinned hand for me to shake before we parted. I suppose he gets a commission on the sale.