The first time my mother drove us down to Mykonos, it was essentially the same journey as going to Corfu; over the mountains in Switzerland, across the top of Italy, through the length of Yugoslavia and into Greece. To reach the island of Mykonos in 1964 you took a supply boat from Athens loaded with chickens, goats and miscellaneous produce. There’s were hardly any other foreigners on the island at that time and only one car which was the local taxi. Commuting was done by small donkeys or on foot.
My mother rented an isolated farm house at the top of the hill overlooking the small town of Mykonos – no electricity and water had to be hauled daily from a well. Every morning two sisters had to walk into town to pick up fresh bread and the other two sisters would walk to a local farmhouse to buy feta cheese. I always enjoyed the walk downhill into town, but if I'd known about hitch hiking I would have readily thrown out my thumb to a passing donkey on the way back up.
After breakfast the we would walk 45 minutes to the other side of the island to a beach called Psaroo where we would spend the day. Being only 6 years old that walk was long; the distant ocean always seemed so far. The walk back at the end of the day was even harder and so hot. I became very familiar with the dusty rock walls along the dirt road, the ancient olive trees, the fig trees and simply putting one step in front of the other.
One step in front of the other…