We had organised with the owner of our secluded campsite for someone to come from a bike hire shop in town and pick us up. And so when a motorbike turned up it was greeted by our surprise and confusion. Becky and I shuffled around in the dust listening to the two men’s Grecian gabble, after which the driver returned to his motorbike and beckoned me to get on the back. I obliged out of sheer bafflement. Then he beckoned for Becky to get on.

Now we’re not talking about some enormous chopper here, it was a big bike yes, but not a three person bike. Becky, also baffled did as she was ushered to. He then bent down, grabbed Becky’s ankle and hoisted it on to my knee. He did the same with the other ankle, nodded with a toothless grin, put both thumbs up and revved his engine before we could utter the slightest yelp or “I’m terribly sorry, but isn’t this rather dangerous and terribly unorthodox?”

Hammering around Paros’s roads, the dry heat hit our faces and as I held Becky’s legs in place and watched her flip flopped feet jiggle around on my knee, I imagined what could only be the face of fear incarnate behind me. We staggered into the bike hire shop and it wasn’t until much later, after looking in the mirror that discovered that we were now sporting beehives.

We were first presented with a scooter and the task to ride it well enough for us to be let loose on it for the rest of the day, fell on Wussbag. Almost crashing twice in the car park we were told that we were under no circumstances allowed a scooter and that we would have to settle for a quad bike. Becky grabbed me aside, clammy handed and sweaty and said, “You have to do the test drive on the quad bike, I can’t take it.” And so, the obvious thing to do came: hand over my blue eyed, blonde friend’s driving licence and as a brown eyed, brunette, pass it off as my own. In England this would not swing, it wouldn’t even gently sway. In Greece, no problem!

The manager glanced briefly at both Becky’s picture and my face before asking me to sign for the quad. Desperately trying to remember Becky’s signature, I scribbled something with a B on the form and thought, “Oh god, my mother’s going to get a call from the Greek police asking her bail her fraud committing daughter out of prison.” “Here we go!”, the manager said as a quad ridden by an 8-year-old screeched to a halt outside.

A fabulous day ensued whereby we buzzed around Paros at 40 miles per hour irritating other drivers with our pace and noise. And it didn’t take long for Wussbag to have a go and refuse to give it back either.

“Can’t find what you’re looking for? Try Google Search!”

Custom Search

So will recommendations made by the Lonely Planet, a book more important that a clean pair of pants whilst travelling. Swatting up and having a rough idea of some islands you would like to visit is great, but so is being flexible.…

Paros is an island right in the heart of the Cyclades, and so the theory was to do one long journey first (4hrs30mins) and free ourselves up for shorter ones in the following weeks to come. Once on Paros, other islands were a stone’s throw away. Paros is neighboured by Naxos, the largest island of the Cycladic Islands. However, Paros is still regarded by backpackers and professional travellers as the better of the two. The little airport means that Paros hasn’t had to cater to large groups of tourists and 18–30 year olds on corresponding holidays, so it is much more authentic. It is not exactly as lush and green as say, Amorgos but approaching it via the port Parikia, the skyline is littered with Greece’s traditional bright, white buildings and blue roofs.

Upon arriving we were quite unprepared for the onslaught of hostel, hotel and campsite promoters and so pushed through them like robots, refusing all. However, this barrage of sweaty Greek men is a prime time to get your accommodation sorted. These guys will drive you to your abode straight from the port meaning you can unstrap your backpack (otherwise known as that pain and strain in your ass) and explore the island back-sweat free.

The key word here is haggle. It is the Marrakech of sleeping arrangements and so don’t take their first offer. Another couple of islands and Becky and I had become season pros at this.

Our first stop was a pharmacy to get Becky some form of medication for her worsening case of tonsillitis. The thinking was that they sell antibiotics over the counter in Spain, so why not here? An odd game of charades ensued whereby I pointed down Becky’s neck and made a face and she clutched her throat and gurgled. We were presented with a throat spray and sent on our way.

After a spattered barter with an English guy still loitering around the port, we agreed on a price to stay in his camping spot on the southern side of the island. After bundling ourselves into his scorching hot truck, our driver gave us an animated tour pointing out that there are two halves to Paros: the more secluded side (our present destination) and Naoussa, where nightlife resided, at which point he wiggled in his chair to demonstrate “nightlife”. We understood much better after that.

The southerly beach is known as “The Golden Beach”: clean, white sand, crystal clear sea and chilled-out, generic music coming from the bar up the beach, straw umbrellas and lots of Armani and Cavalli wearers sauntering about the place. There wasn’t a wibbly-wobbly, cap wearing, sunburnt Brit insight…apart from us obviously. Two days of this coupled with incessant spraying and Becky was almost cured, and I was craving something else to do but sunbathe. Relaxing and peaceful as it was, out of season if you are not an avid sun-worshipper, restlessness will kick in down South. On our third day we travelled over to Naoussa to see what we could see.

It felt like we’d entered back into civilisation after being at some kind of retreat. Here there certainly were Brits to be found. The beaches aren’t quite as nice however, there is far more to do, be it water sports, eating in a different place every day, sitting in a swing chair on the balcony of a bar watching the sun set or just plain people watching.

More trinkets and junk than in an episode of Bargain Hunt can be found in the stalls and markets along the seafront, broken up by the divine smell of garlic, butter and all manner of seafood. All the while, Becky and I had found it quite hard not to quote and draw references to Shirley Valentine and so on our last night in Paros, we asked the waiter if we could move our table to the edge of the sea and feel the cool waves lapping at our feet. He said no. So we settled for sharing olives, bread, Greek salad a bottle of deliciously cheap white wine on the sea front under a string of fairy lights and overlooking the bobbing boats.

On our way back to the campsite, we met a German boy (I say boy, he was 18 but looked 5) called Malta who consequently we would then meet up with on the boat to Ios the following morning and spend the next five days with. After a few drinks, Malta promptly divulged that the owners of the campsite had been placing bets as to whether Becky and I were lesbians or not. The next day we both wore dresses and mascara.

“Can’t find what you’re looking for? Try Google Search!”

Custom Search