Grass is greener

So we're back in rain-lashed Blighty and we've managed to turn the battle tide of weeds that had massed troops across the plains of P28 while we were in sun-ravaged Crete. It really is good to be back. I know that makes me sound like an ungrateful and spoiled tourista, (especially at a time when lots of folks don't want to commit to holiday spending in the new economic dark ages), but it's the truth. We all need to chill out and a little 5-star grown up couple time is always welcome; Lynn and I have certainly supped long and deep at that particular cup during the last two weeks, and the batteries are full again. But for me, one of the most important reasons for holidaying is to remind you why you love living at home. I strongly suspect that the first time I stay in some far-flung destination and don't want to come back to England's green and pleasant, will be the time I Google for the emigration forms. Beautiful as Crete is, I won't be visiting the website of the Greek Department of Homeland and Settlement any time soon. The reason's a simple one. In the inimitable words of Cole Porter, 'It's too darn hot'.

Those who know me will testify that I love the sun. I was born fairly olive skinned and it only takes two days of baking to turn me into a good facsimile of a local almost everywhere we've been. Granted, if we ever make it to Tanzania on that safari Lynn bangs on about, I may not be able to pull off my tanning camouflage trick quite so easily. Fact remains that it's worryingly easy to get a tan in Crete. Our first Sunday of the holiday was reportedly the hottest day in Crete for 20 years. It topped-out at well over 40 degrees that day. Nearly every day approached 40 degrees and it's only the gentle sea breeze that makes the heat bearable. My presence and the thermometer-busting temperatures were not a coincidence. If you fancy the Cretan deluxe loved-up romantic experience, you'd better get onto it in the next few years, because global warming is going to take away your options.

Every local we talked to confirmed that we were lucky to live in England where we have weather. All Cretans seem to love London; shopping, cold, rain and snow were the trip-advisor essentials they quoted for their destination of choice. Irini, our favourite Maitre D', longs to take her children back to London. In her own words, 'It's too hot here. The sun melts our brains.' Our gin supplier and purveyor of local wisdom for the fortnight was Kostas. Now in his 60s and recovering from a quadruple by-pass operation, Kostas has the neighbourhood supermarket and cafe scene pretty much sown up. But Kostas is most proud of his garden; a gargantuan spread of 5000 square metres devoted to fruit and veg growing. Allotmenteering cuts across all language barriers, and we were soon swapping veggie-based advice. I moaned about the weeds and rain. Kostas moaned about the lack of water and the cost and effort of watering his plot every single day. Crete has had 5 days rain this year and it's becoming more like a sub-Saharan Libya in terms of what Kostas can grow. It will only get worse for Kostas and we resigned ourselves to agree that allotmenteering has a future in England, but not on Crete. I promised him that I'd put in a good word down at the Plots if he ever needs to join the Attican diaspora in search of cooler and wetter ground in the north. The whole experience was a stark reminder and I left wondering how long it would be before P28 had lemon trees.

And so to home. I still have to buy the lemons, but it's a small price to pay for some kind of temperate growing future. I'm even appreciating the weeds a little more; they are, after all, part of what makes it green and pleasant. Of course, those of you who have followed the link on this page to the hotel we stayed in will still think me ungrateful and quite mad. But you know what they say, 'You can take the boy out of the shed...'