Athens (Greece) via Darlington

Nikos, my Greek friend took a year out from Sunderland Poly following the sinking of M.V. Chaton in November 1977 and the drowning of three sailors including the affable cook, Michalis. He came back in late June in a rickety old Land Rover he had bought in London and asked me if I wanted to join him for the drive to his home, a tiny fishing village on the island of Evia, just off the Greek mainland. 

I had already decided that Naval Architecture was not for me and that I really wanted to get back to computing which I had studied for two years back in Algeria, when computers were petrol-driven and punch cards were still being used in programming. I jumped at the offer and the opportunity to spend another summer the way I always had, on the beach enjoying the Mediterranean and all its fishy offerings of grilled sardines, crayfish in tomato sauce or just an evening campfire on the seashore.

Another friend of ours, Papi asked to tag along. “The more, the merrier,” said Nikos. 

We enjoyed one last supper with friends at an Indian restaurant in Sunderland after a long day out in Weardale to test the Land Rover. The following morning, Sunday, I bid Karen goodbye, not really knowing when we would see each other again and jumped into the passenger seat eager for the adventure to commence.

We left Sunderland behind us as we headed down the A19 and then the A1, chugging along nicely, Radio One music blaring. One hour later, just on the outskirts of Darlington, smoke began pouring out of the bonnet. We stopped to assess the damage. The oil pump had been leaking and the engine had seized up, all its pistons, melting together from the heat and friction. 

A rescue tow truck took the Land Rover to a garage in Darlington. Unperturbed, Nikos suggested a nice Sunday lunch at a local village pub while the mechanic assessed the damage.

Well-fed and watered, we returned to the garage, eager and ready to continue our voyage only to learn that the Land Rover was a write-off. It needed a new engine which would cost more than the Jeep itself. We scrapped it and hired a van to take us down to London. There, we found a private continental coach company that made regular trips to Greece. We booked a return to Athens which cost us a bargain £28.

 As we had to wait a week for the coach to be fully sold out before departure, Papi and I decided to return to Sunderland. Karen was surprised to see me as she hadn’t expected me back for at least a couple of months. We stayed a few days, said our goodbyes again and made our way back to London to join a band of intrepid travellers for a bargain crossing of Europe. After all, budget airlines hadn’t yet been thought of and Freddie Laker’s Skytrain flew only between Gatwick and New York.

The passengers ranged from students to young families, single travellers to groups of friends. Papi and Nikos sat next to each other while I found a seat by an elderly Greek woman travelling to Athens to see her newest grandson. Throughout the journey, she fed me all sorts of homemade delicacies starting with Greek pies and fresh salads to Kalamata olives and Baklava. Papi and Nikos were green with envy as they munched on some bland and limp lettuce sandwiches.