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the house built for the keepers was deserted and used only by the shepherds to stable their sheep and goats. It was on the end of the island about 200 metres beyond the wall. I could not get there fast enough. There it stood, poised on the cliff edge, gleaming in the sunset like the Holy Grail.
    It was a three-roomed house and, though the doors and window-panes had long since gone, structurally sound. The doors were knee-deep in ashes and sheep droppings and it smelled accordingly. But in any room it felt like standing on the bridge of a ship sailing into a beautiful bay and from any window I could drop a fishing line straight down into the sea. I rushed back to the cafe.
    â€œWhat do I have to do before I can move in?” I asked the two men.
    â€œWell it is Government property. You’d better go to the harbour-master at Gythion and ask him.”
    The following day I would go to Gythion. I felt like celebrating. The two men could not join me but they told me there was an English family holidaying in the village.
    A woman guided me through the ancient intricacies of Monemvasia to the contemporary unreality of a Yorkshire farmer and his wife and four children living in blissful dishevelment and down to their last 100 drachmas.
    They were only a little worried about how they weregoing to get their Bedford van back to England via Yugoslavia without money for the petrol. After the second bottle of
retsina
it seemed a perfect solution to our joint problems. I gave them my superfluous Yugoslav dinars in exchange for a five-pound cheque.
    I had no idea how I was going to cash a cheque in Greece drawn on a bank in Scarborough. Nor did I care. I would soon be the owner (temporary) of an Aegean lighthouse. That was worth all the dinars in Yugoslavia.
    The harbour master at Gythion, who spoke English well enough to know that I wanted permission to live in the deserted lighthouse at Monemvasia, did his best. He got a call through to the Ministry of Marine at Athens, but, after twenty minutes of bureaucratic buck-passing, he put down the phone and said to me: “The answer is no!” Just like that. Then he added: “If you want to stay in a lighthouse, why don’t you stay in ours?”
    He detailed a naval rating to escort me to the end of a promontory at the entrance to the harbour. It was even better than Monemvasia. Unfortunately, the ground floor was occupied by a cafe. The hospitable, gregarious Greeks could not comprehend my desire to be alone and isolated.
    A little disconsolate but with undiminished faith, I went back to the main square. In this southern port the tables and chairs were already out in the warm spring sun and a goodly proportion of the male population, as in all Greek towns, was devoting the workless day to drinking coffee.
    My harbour-master was in conversation with a couple of men and when I joined them to explain why the lighthouse was unsuitable, another dozen or so came over to interest themselves in the proposition and to give asmuch helpful advice as possible. An elderly man said something which won universal approval and the harbour-master turned to me smiling and said: “He says if you want a house by the sea he has a spare one you can have.”
    I was beginning to learn to conceal astonishment at this form of spontaneous generosity.
    â€œAsk him how far it is from the sea,” I said.
    I did not need the interpreter to translate the old man’s “thirty metres”. I began to get excited.
    â€œHow much would he like me to pay for it each month?”
    That brought a big laugh. There was much head-shaking and waving of hands in dismissal of the idea.
    â€œ
Ochi
!
Ochi
! Nothing. Nothing.”
    He must have seen the delight in my face. I hope he got some reward from it. But after Monemvasia I was playing it cautious.
    â€œWill he be able to take me to see it today?” I asked the interpreter.
    After some discussion I was told to return to the square at one