By Brenda Chamberlain
A gorgeous and private account of the time spent by way of Brenda Chamberlain at the Greek Island of Ydra within the early 1960's. Sea and harbor, mountain and monastery, her friends and neighbors are unforgettably pictured; those have been the truth outdoor herself whereas inside there has been a clash of emotion and warring wishes that's additionally vividly delivered to existence. pleasure and woe are woven fantastic during this list: the pride of a large number of clean reviews thronging to the senses, the struggling with which she emerges with new knowing of herself and human life.
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Extra info for A Rope of Vines: Journal From a Greek Island (Library of Wales)
The settle was put for safety against the house-wall, out of the way of donkeys and mules who paced up the steps with loads of cement and plaster and new tiles. The transformation of the ‘plumbing’ had begun, thanks doubtless to the letter from America. Trouble started between the two women, who raved with hatred for one another. Sophia threw a dustpan at the old one, and threatened to twist her nose, all the while twitching on and off her head covering, finding it necessary to walk away a 18 few yards to cool herself down, crying to the neighbours to listen to the idiotic ideas of the ancient woman who, at one stage of the upheaval, was shut up in a back room, but who for most of the time sat on her chair on a plank over the newly placed tiles.
At the last came a small donkey which the papas told me I should mount. There was the accustomed cry for air from the shuttered white houses piled one above the other on the burnt-ochre rocks. The papas, who smelt of garlic, held a black umbrella over himself and talked in deep tones with the laughing nun as he gazed round his world of cactus and waterless mountains. We rode past hawk-quartered rocks, through the little pass of the watchtower with its prospect of the sea, to the stubborn track below the turpentine forest.
Elene, the young wife from next door, is singing a monotonous chant. It has been cooler today, but what was this morning a 23 breeze is now a wind of warm and powerful gusts coming up the valley from the sea, and it will probably turn into a storm, meltemia, such as Shelley drowned in. From this high-up house, I can look onto the tops of the waving walnut trees and the prickly pear and across the valley to the houses built among boulders, tortuous steps. The air is full of the threat of thunder.