Last night, Mt Ida, the white mountain, stood in the reflected glory of the blue moon, a smudge red, night sky lingered but only the white mountain survived the shepherd's delight; the accordion player in Taverna Tzitzifes played a love lament that dated from before the Nazi occupation, before that the Ottoman and before that...; we raised a thimbleful of Tsikoudia (not the Raki the Turks left behind) and knocked back the spirits as Sunday beckoned. The thought of timeless struggle and love lingering, survived the night, and the call to prayer, and the Orthodox liturgy, peeling out of the Byzantine church, opened our eyes and ears to a new day.
