A London Transsexual Escort. 254 Part 2

Stepping out of the plane, Corfu greeted us with a balmy 28-Celsius (84 degrees in old money). We zipped through arrivals, as we were travelling light with just our carry on luggage. And even though W had brought along his motorized Jet surfboard (reaches 30 mph), there was only a brief wait before it was on the carouse: how very different from London's airports.
My longest wait at immigration is awarded to San Francisco, over two-hours from arriving until I got out of the airport and that’s with carry-on too! It once took me twenty hours to fly from London to Boston...remind me to tell you about that adventurous nightmare sometime.
We loaded into the taxi and made for our hotel situated in the southwest of the island, on the Ionian Sea. Everything looked much greener than I expected it might, however, every couple of miles we came across large heaps of rubbish bags loaded up on the side of the road. It was a real eyesore amongst the beautiful surroundings; it's due to a lack of money and Greek's broken economy, which sadly doesn't look like improving any time soon.
Both of us being foodies, we’d booked into one of the finest small hotels in the area for eating. My balcony room looked dart straight down the short road leading onto the beach. Thirty minutes after checking in, we were swimming in a clear blue sea that felt as warm as bath water.
After an hour of splashing about, I was ready for a spot of lunch and a siesta; dinner was 7pm down on the beach. The restaurant had a simple decked floor and sail canopies for the roof, no walls and several long open grills to the side. I ordered the Greek salad (when in Greece) and told I simply must sample the chips for which they are famous: yes they were good, but I was expecting a bigger bang, perhaps it’s the salty sea air and views that makes them taste so good: probably?
We feasted on lamb cutlets and baby octopus, succulent and tender. There was wine; lots of it, which we imbibed while watching a huge medallion orange and coral sun, sink into the sea on the horizon. You actually see it descending, turn your head for a minute, as we did one evening and you’ve missed it.
Retiring to our rooms at 10pm, I spent the next twenty minutes flailing at the mozzie who insisted on buzzing past my ear trying to get a nibble, with a satisfying crack of the towel, she (it’s the females that bite) was dispatched across the whitewashed wall, now a simple pink streak.
W knocked on the door at 8am, ‘I’m off down to the beach, see you there,’ I arrived an hour later but he was nowhere to be seen, I went in for a dip anyway. Looking off into the distance, I spied an orange kayak towing a surfboard toward the shore, now there’s a coincidence I thought; the same colour as W’s board too.
Then I saw him, strolling along the shoreline. ‘What you up to, I thought you were off surfing.’ ‘See that board being towed, well, I hit an underwater rock after about half an hour in, it took the rudder off so that’s that for the weekend.’ He didn’t seem too bothered, there was still plenty to do and enjoy.
Back at the hotel we ate a light breakfast and discussed lunch plans, but first, a morning siesta after our hour of splashing about in the sea. It was decided that we'd scooter up over the hills, to where a highly recommend family tavern served amazing seafood.
I rode pillion: up up up, in a corkscrew fashion, we climbed the dusty parched road and past yet more bags of rubbish, arriving some twenty minutes later. It was just we two and six other diners for lunch, but the owners didn’t seem too fussed. The season was winding down anyway, so, any more custom was a plus. The view was stunning; looking out across the azure bay where we’d been swimming earlier, an uninterrupted horizon, next stop, Italy.
The rest of the afternoon was spent poolside, W working away on his laptop and tan, me, reading beneath a parasol and working on staying pale, with an occasional dip into the pool to keep my temperature down.
We dined at the hotel's renowned restaurant, fortunately as guests staying there, we were able to secure a table, as people from all over the island come to eat here.
More octopus, calamari, fish, lamb, flat-bread, hummus, a large platter of char-grilled Mediterranean vegetables, olives, halloumi. We didn’t hold back, it was only until the waistbands of our shorts restricted us from eating any more. Yes, I could have let my belt out a notch but…well, I didn’t. The next two days were a repeat of the first: I won’t bore you. 
I’d return to Corfu again as the locals suggested, just before or after the season i.e. first week or two of May or mid-September. Also, at that time of year food, drink and accommodation are amazingly cheap, to say nothing of the lack of tourists fighting for space on the beach, or in the restaurants. So, thank you W for an indulgent weekend, I guess I’d better toddle off down to the gym now.
What I’m reading on the beach…
Wasted Calories & Ruined Nights: Jay Rayner.

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