Just before the dreadful earthquake in Greece, a recent visitor to that country had written a letter on the joyous side of things. He was struck by the wonders of Peleponnese restaurants where, instead of perusing a menu, you go to the kitchen, lift the lids of the cookingpots, inspect the array of colourful starters, and select the particular specimen of glistening fish that takes your fancy. As for wine, almost always it is the "house wine" - a rose which, curiously, they sell as often by the kilo as by the litre. Naturally, our tourist assumed that the "house wine" simply meant - as so often in Ireland - a cheap bottle of wine bought by the crate from the local wholesaler. One day, though, as he passed the taverna where he had dined the previous evening, he saw the waiter standing in a trailer, with his broad bare feet squelching and pounding a sack full of grapes. So, at least in that remote part of Greece, house wine is meant in its literal sense, with each taverna making its own tipple, some pale pink, others almost russet coloured, and all with a touch of resin - something of an acquired taste.
Travelling through the countryside, lots of empty polythene tunnels, like those in garden centres, were seen. Finally, on the last day of the holiday their purpose was revealed. Spread an inch deep from one end to the other, with wasps taking their fill, were millions upon millions of grapes drying and shrivelling into currants. Our visitor confessed to taking just one currant for each of the passengers in his car, and delicious they were too. One last remark: in all the meals he ate, feasting and drinking like a lord, he never paid more than £6 a head and, what's more, when he stepped on the scales back home, he hadn't put on a single ounce! Y