It's all Greek to me

“Shall we cut our losses then?” Geoff murmurs, as he makes his way back from the shower, which is located down a corridor, itself, under renovation. I agree immediately from the chilly depths of my bed. We had been given thick course sheets and seen-better-days-non-fluffy blankets to make our own beds and everything feels slightly damp in the mountain air.

To celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary we decided to attend a Greek dancing workshop in a monastery, no less. An original, instructive and active break, and I was so excited by the prospect of the trip that I was awake at 5.30am preparing. However we arrived at our destination just 10 minutes too late for the start of the first afternoon dance session held in a dim basement. We slipped into the dancing ring, helping hands guiding us into place, while our legs flipped flopped like puppets. By the end of the 4th dance we had been relegated to the end of the line, no one would let us in! We were obviously not up to standard and upset the delicate equilibrium of the rhythmic moving bodies. We were with serious, deadly serious dancers and we were but seriously novice, novices.

The two dance teachers were Greek and the organiser translated but a third of what they had to say into French, of which we picked up just a smidgen, and then off again we were, off on another giddy shuffle to the strains of bouzouki music. At the end of this afternoon session we sought out our room, a three very uneven floor walk-up. Our room was enormous and was being used as a store room for a grand piano! The piano was dwarfed by two enormous wardrobes and three single beds looked tiny in comparison. The sink in the corner was not plumbed in, and we had to clamber through a building site to find another.

We met fellow dancers at the ‘apero,’ and later we were introduced to other fellow visitors to this Monastery, as there were other activities in place. Geoff was none too impressed by his meagre portion of boiled potatoes and salad for his main course. Even sandwiched between thin soup and a brownie, it did not him a happy bunny make. Washing up afterwards was not really on our agenda as we do that at home, and 4 days of like fodder was not a comforting prospect. However, soldier on for the evening session, but this time without a teacher. We tried, we really did, the tap, tap dance, and the swinging dance and the round ones: the quick and slow ones. We learned to hold our hands above shoulder level but below the eyes. We learned to take little steps not giant ones and flip from the knee not the waist in our London ‘hockey-cocky style.’ But we could not grab whether it was to be an arm in arm dance, hand on shoulder, hold hands or any other combination until the dance was almost over.

Hot, sticky and exhausted, we went to hunt for the dusty communal showers which were located on the 4th floor and then fell into our monastic beds.

So cut our losses we did! Before breakfast we explained to the organiser that we thought it better that we leave. She gave us a wry smile and for the first time looked so relieved that she did not have to expel us.

After our frugal breakfast, we packed and left the establishment, feeling a little light headed as though we had been let out of prison. Met by the weak autumn sun, which shone gently on our faces, we decided to look around the village before leaving, and then we stopped for a mid-morning coffee.

‘Did you see that?’ Geoff says on his return from the loo in the café.

'Of course' I say, ' I just wanted you to experience that first hand / bottom, so to speak.'

It is not every day you see a Perspex toilet seat with barbed wire deeply embedded in it..! A perfect ending for this prickly experience!